Bicoastal Babe (12 page)

I have to go back out there. It’s showtime, and my falsetto concerto in the shower is not going to cut it. I have nothing to show. Nothing but a bullshit pile of phony questionnaires. Which, of course, is why she’s here. She’s sniffed out my fear like a dog, and she’s ready to pounce. Hopefully it’ll be a quick death.

“S
how me what you have.”

We’re sitting at the table with our Starbucks, me with a pen and a blank notepad, and Jen with three scratched-up notebooks, four page-marked magazines, and a pile of finished questionnaires that practically touches the ceiling.

“Uh…” I stammer. “Tell me what you mean, exactly.”

“You’ve had a week in New York to pull ideas together for the newsletter, and our deadline is in ten days. So let’s see it.”

I jump up from the table. “I’ve got the questionnaires you asked me to do.” I snatch them from my backpack. “Right here. All fifty.” Hopefully she won’t look too hard, and I can substitute most of them later for real interviews.

Jen takes the pile and begins to rifle through it. “There’s only two topics on here. Pinstripes and finger food.”

“Right.”

“Where’s the third one?’

Shit. I forgot all about the third one. I still can’t even remember what it was.

“Ambiguous endings, Lindsey. Why isn’t it on here?”

That’s right! How could I have forgotten that? Ambiguous endings. What exactly happened, nobody knows for sure. Kind of like three months from now, when no one’s heard from me and they can’t locate a body anywhere in the state of California.

“Well, I can explain that. See, I started asking people about it, and they really didn’t know what I was talking about. So I figured, if they don’t get it after I’m even explaining it to them, then how trendy can it be?”

“Did you give them examples?”

“Yes.”

“What examples?”

Think quick. Quick. Quicker.

“Independence Day.”

“Independence Day, the movie?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you use that?”

“It wasn’t clear what happened at the end.”

“Lindsey, the world blew up.”

“Oh. Right.” What can I say? Went right over my head. Should’ve gone to film school.

“So why isn’t the question on here?”

“What do you mean?” I’m getting pretty proficient at this playing-dumb game. I think I’m managing to convince her that I actually am a complete moron. Which only helps my case a slight bit, because while stupidity isn’t technically my fault, my contribution to the newsletter is still a big zero.

“The ambiguous-endings thing isn’t even on your questionnaire.”

“It was on a separate page. I ended up tearing them off.”

“Why would you put it on a separate page? This page is barely filled.”

“Look, it’s not a trend, okay? Get over it. And even if it was, it’s about movies. How could advertising clients use it?”

“They could stylize their commercials after it,” she says flatly.

Good point.

She looks at me, obviously waiting for what else I have to contribute. Which, of course, is nothing. And I have nothing to say. I’m cornered, like my family dog, Buster, the time we caught him standing on the kitchen table with the London broil hanging out of his mouth. But I have no London broil. And no ideas. And no excuse.

We stare at each other in silence for what feels like a year. I can’t tell what’s going on behind her eyes, but I can feel what’s going on behind mine: hot tears of embarrassment and failure, welling up like water in a pressure cooker. We might as well skip the inquisition so I can pack my suitcase and get the hell home. But she’s not letting me off that easy. Her beady little eyes are like X-rays, probing past my bullshit and straight into my guilty soul as she watches me, patient, waiting silently for my meltdown.

This is ridiculous. We both know what’s going on here.

“Jen. That first day in New York, you made it very clear that you wanted to run this show. That I was to be the lackey who followed up your brilliant trend discoveries with corroborating data.”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it. And you know what? Fine. If walking around New York and L.A., concocting nuggets of something that may or may not be popular six months from now is your life’s dream, then you can have it. Fine by me. I can stand on street corners all day harassing people about your insights. Just give me the topics and tell me where to go.”

“And if my name were at the top of
The Pulse
, that would be ideal. But it’s not. It’s
our
names on that newsletter, Lindsey. Equal billing. So if you think I’m going to do all the creative work while you stand around and regurgitate questions like a robot, you’re out of your mind.”

“That’s what you said you wanted!” I get up from the table and turn my back. The tears are coming fast, and I don’t want her to see.

“I changed my mind. I’m out there doing interviews too, you know. I’m working on this thing day and night. Everywhere I go, everything I look at, every conversation I have – it’s all a part of this.”

“Well, I’m sorry if, in my first week, I haven’t been able to osmosize your trend-tracking chi into the core of my human existence.” I turn back to Jen, tears in full view. I don’t even care anymore. “I don’t have any experience at this. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, really?”

“I don’t even know why Liz hired me!”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“What do you want from me?”
Now I’m shouting through my tears.

“I want you to get out there and figure it out. There are no classes for this. No training courses, Lindsey. It’s sink or swim. And you know what else?
It’s really not that hard!”

“Maybe not for you!”

“It shouldn’t be that hard for you either. I know you’re not stupid, so stop looking at me with that blank expression like you just fell off the short bus and landed on the lawn at the retard Olympics.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome. I’m on to you, Lindsey. But fortunately for you, I don’t have time to deal with this, because I have a newsletter to get out. I’m wasting my time here.”

She gets up and starts shoving her notebooks and magazines back into her bag. “I’m going to leave all my questionnaires here for you to tabulate. Calculate everything in percentages and break it down by gender, age, and whether or not they’re employed or in school.”

She heads for the door. “You’ve got another week to pull this together. We’ll meet up in New York next Sunday and do the write-up. I’m going to call you with more interview topics in a couple of days.”

She turns to go. “And while you’re at it, try to come up with a few new ideas.” She smiles fake-sweet. “At least one. Try for one.”

After she’s gone, I sit down to ponder the exchange. She’s definitely annoyed with me, but not as full-on furious as I’d have expected. Maybe she understands how hard this is for a newbie. Or maybe she realizes that because she was my official trainer (albeit for one day), my incompetence will make her look just as bad to Liz as it’ll make me look. In any case, it seems that I have another week. And without Victor around to distract me, I have nothing to do but concentrate on work.

And because we all know that concentration is best achieved poolside, I slip on my bikini and go out to soak up some sun while I ponder my next steps.

The sunshine is so sharp and clean here, not like New York, where it feels like the UV rays are burning a layer of grime into your skin. After a week in Manhattan, it’s strange to hear birds chirping above my head instead of car horns blaring from every direction. The energy in New York is like a jolt of electricity, whereas here it’s more like a soft, steady breeze. I heard once that people can be put into two categories: In the depths of your heart, you’re either a New York person or a California person. As if three thousand miles of in-between material for constructing a personality don’t exist. But now I understand what it means. It’s about the environment that feeds your lifeblood, which kind of energy makes you feel alive and which kind makes you feel sedated.

I saw an
Oprah
episode once that featured a teary-eyed group of compulsive adult bed-wetters. I’m not sure what the connection was, but I remember Oprah wrapping it all up by imparting the following wisdom: “In life,” she prophesied, “the most important achievement is to know yourself, understand who you really are, and connect with the true person inside of you.”

Shit, I remember thinking. I’d better get on that.

But here I am, confronting the two defining natures head-on, having been given the perfect opportunity to categorize and know myself, at least a little. And honestly, I like both of these places. God knows I love New York. But I’m kind of digging the way I feel here too. So who
is
the true person inside of me? Will I ever find her? Will I ever know her? Will I ever –

“Hey, do you mind if use a squirt of your sunscreen?”

I squint up into the sun to see a girl my age standing by the nearest pool chair.

“Oh, sure.” I hand her the bottle. “Use as much as you want.”

I watch as she slathers the lotion onto her body. She’s got a very pretty face and luscious long brown hair, but she’s overweight, probably by a good fifty pounds. I normally wouldn’t point that out, but I was genuinely wondering if they even
carry
clothes above a size four here in L.A. Much to my relief, apparently they do.

“I’m Carmen,” she says. “Are you new in the building?”

“Well, yes, sort of. I live here part-time, every other week.”

“Ahhh… so you’re the other half of the bicoastal team.” She smiles knowingly.

“I take it you’ve met Jen.”

“Uh-huh. Once or twice, in passing. She’s… really nice.”

“Don’t lie,” I say flatly.

Carmen laughs. “Okay, so she’s a little… well… I don’t know. Let’s just say you can tell she’s not from around here.”

I take the sunscreen back from her and add a little to my arms.

“Are you from around here?” I ask.

“Born and bred. My dad produces films. My mom is a costume designer. Just about everyone you meet here is in the entertainment industry, one way or another.”

“Including you?”

“No, actually. I own an art gallery down on Melrose.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“That’s so young to have it all figured out.”

“Young? That’s ancient in Hollywood. At least by industry standards.”

“Sunny days. That makes me a fucking cadaver.”

My curse word startles me, and I immediately apologize. But Carmen laughs and pulls out a Virginia Slims 100.

“Do you mind if I smoke? I’ll wave it the other way.”

“Ohh! I don’t mind. Can I have one too?”

We light our cigs and clink them together in a gleeful toast. “To the only two people in California who still indulge in the occasional ciggie treat,” Carmen says. “I had to drive across the border to get these, you know.”

“Well, smoking
is
totally un-PC. Not to mention terrible for our health.”

“I heard that somewhere.”

“We should quit.”

“You wanna? We could be each other’s sponsors.”

“Yes. Let’s quit.”

“Fine. Done. That ship has sailed.”

“Bon voyage.”

“Bon voyage!”

I bite my lip. “After this one, right?”

“Of course.”

•   •   •

And five hours later, as I sip a mango martini at Eight Ball, Hollywood’s latest theme bar, it appears that I have actually made a new friend. Carmen and I have hit it off like we’ve known each other forever. She’s told me all about her art gallery, her boyfriend, Tommy (who’s a promoter at Elektra Records), and her new pole-dancing class – which is apparently a tried-and-true exercise trend among celebrities. And I’ve told her all about my job (not quite mentioning how I’ve managed to melt a golden goat into a puddle of piss in less than two short weeks). And of course, I’ve told her about Victor, my tall, charming, handsome heartthrob who lives and breathes everything Manhattan.

“Wow – he sounds great. Tell him to come out here and visit.”

“He’d be a fish out of water, that’s for sure.”

“Who cares? Get him on a plane. Sounds like he can afford it.”

“Yeah, well, first he has to call me.”

“You haven’t heard from him yet?”

I signal the waiter for more drinks, not really wanting to answer that question. Then I pick up the black Magic 8-Ball, one of which sits in the center of every table in the bar. I close my eyes and shake the ball, concentrating fiercely.

“Will I marry Victor Ragsdale?” I push the eight ball toward Carmen, so she can read my answer through the tiny window on the ball.

She bites her lip.

“What is it?” I demand.

“My reply is no,” she reads.

Noticing my frown, she holds it out. “Try it again.”

I snatch it back, close my eyes, and shake again, this time harder.

“Will Victor Ragsdale and I get married to each other?”

I push the ball back to her.

“Cannot predict now,” she reads.

“Okay, one more.” I shake it one more time, trying to form a mental and spiritual connection with whatever life force speaks to us through random gadgets such as these.

“Is it within my destiny to end up betrothed to Victor Ragsdale?” I push the ball toward Carmen.

“It is decidedly so!”

I throw my arms up in triumph and put the ball back, just as the waiter arrives with our drinks.

“So seriously, Lindsey. You should just call him.”

“I already did. He didn’t answer, so I hung up.”

“There’s something called Caller ID, you know.”

“I didn’t think of that. And anyway, he didn’t call me back.”

“But you didn’t leave a message.”

“So?”

“So when you’re out of town, it’s
your
job to call the person who’s waiting home for you. You’re on a business trip – he doesn’t want to interrupt you. If the roles were reversed, it would be his job to call you.”

I’m skeptical. While all that may be true, he’s also the man. And while I consider myself to be a fully evolved woman of the new millennium, there’s still a part of me that obeys
The Rules.