Leaving Unknown (23 page)

Laura seemed to recall the golden halo she’d painted over her current job. “Not that this place is
bad
. I mean, I’ve learned
a lot
and I’m
grateful
for that. But, I’ve grown as much as I can here and it’s time to move on.” Another snort. I was starting to forgive him. “I mean
really
, a tough male/straitlaced female crime-solving duo? It’s sooooo formulaic.” I had the feeling she was repeating a conversation she’d overheard on the parking shuttle, and couldn’t define
formulaic
if asked. “
Badge Attitude
is totally going to be ground breaking. They’re tough cops, but they don’t have guns. Just
badges
and
attitudes
.” She opened her eyes really wide at me.

“Oh,” I said.

A tiny frown appeared.

“
Amazing
.” I ramped it up.

She smiled, satisfied. “It’s gonna be
awesome
. Hey.” She
frowned again. “How’d you get in here?” She wasn’t interested in the months it took me to get to Los Angeles, just my presence in her building.

“I charmed the guard at the front gate.” I was smug.

She wrinkled her nose. “The weirdo with the eyebrows? He’s serial-killer creepy.” I was silent. Her interest reverted back to Laura. “But if you got past him, you might be useful at some clubs…” She tapped her teeth, thoughtful.

“Where’s the intern?” A female voice called from an office somewhere out of sight. “Colin needs a ride back to Stage 16. And I need my dry cleaning before six.”

Laura gave an exaggerated sigh and addressed me in a martyred tone. “Oh,
I’ll
do it. Colin and I are
so
close. He won’t
say
it, but he prefers me to drive him.” She flipped what hair wasn’t occupied strangling her head feather. “Then I’ve really got to focus on
my
work.” A little laugh. “So much to do! I’ll see you tonight around nine?” It was a dismissal.

“Sure. Is there a trick with the keys or an alarm or anything?”

“Keys?”

“To the house?”

“I need the keys so I can drive home, silly.” Her tone was impatient.

“You could separate the house key,” I pointed out. “I’ll wait there.”

“Hmm, yeah…I suppose. Listen, there’s a café near my place called Sidewalk Café. They’ll let you sit there for hours. They don’t mind. I’ll call when I’m on my way home, ’kay?” She bounced up, dispatch complete. “See ya.” Twiddled fingers, teetering walk.

I watched her wobbly departure, trying to check my dis
belief. My excitement about LA threatened to come crashing down. A miniature, weepy me was inside my head somewhere, curled up in a ball, homesick for Unknown and…but I shut her down. That girl was pathetic. This one wasn’t. I pulled myself up, clutching my box.

As I passed Skinny Tie, I paused. “Can you define
formulaic
?”

“Adjective. An idea the nature of which is expressed in an unoriginal concept wholly reliant on previous models.”

“That tie’s not so bad,” I said.

He smiled. “Would you like to watch them film the show for a bit?”

I smiled back. “An answer in the affirmative. A positive response. Assent.”

Twenty minutes later I was settled discreetly out of the way in a director’s chair, clutching the “sides,” which were a collection of the script pages they’d be shooting that day. I’d read them twice. Detective Angus was confronting the Chief. I frowned as I read.

Skinny Tie, whose name was actually Clark, handed me a headset. “You need this comtech to hear the actors.”

“I’m having trouble with the formulaic concept,” I said. “Can you give me an example?”

“Don’t judge. Before this I worked on
Passions
.”

“I handed out burrito leaflets dressed as a donkey,” I conceded. “Clark? What’s a First AD?”

“An Assistant Director. She preps the episode, oversees the shooting schedule, and runs the set, coordinating cast and
crew. She’s the director’s right hand.” He pointed to a pretty blonde with a walkie talkie, a crowd around her, and the biggest tool belt of all. “Nina’s our First AD. She basically busts everyone’s balls.”

I must have looked confused, because he winked and said, “In some cases, as it applies to
interns
for example, it can mean ‘Abysmally Dim.’”

“Actuality Deficit?” I grinned.

“Absolute Diarrhea,” he agreed. “Speaking of, I’d better get back, or Appalling Disaster will mix Wite-Out with toner ink and blow up the office. Joel would be displeased.” He patted my shoulder. “She’s not a bad egg. She merely occupies a…unique state of reality.” He handed me a card. “If you need anything.”

My vision of waltzing onto the lot and heroically pulling the Nikon lens free from the legendary stone in which it was embedded, fulfilling the prophecy to become the Chosen Image Taker, was ludicrous. Los Angeles wasn’t Unknown. If I took a candy bar from the cafeteria and promised to pay another day, I’d be hauled off in cuffs. I wouldn’t be talking my way into a job here.

“Thanks, Clark. You’ll be able to afford the whole tie someday.”

“Elvis Costello spurns you.” He left with a wave.

I slipped on the comtech and settled in to admire Colin Cantell’s chest. It heaved with intensity as he declared,

I winced.

After the scene was done, the director called, “Cut,” and the crew jumped. Chairs were returned to their starting position,
extras reversed their steps, picture frames swept off the desk in righteous anger were righted, and hair and makeup people swarmed Colin Cantell. Three minutes and the scene was completely reset. Two more, and the director called, “Action.” Colin Cantell strode into the Chief’s office for Take Two.

“Cut!” called the actor playing the Chief. “That’s not the line, Colin.”

The director sighed. “Warren!”

I clamped my mouth shut to keep from saying the line. This was not challenging dialogue. Presumably Warren’s voice called,

“Right!” Colin’s face lightened. He ambled back to his starting position. We began again.

They got to the third line before a voice cut across the comtech. “I’ve got static.”

“Cut!” shouted the director. A sound guy darted out and fiddled with a line threaded down the Chief’s shirt. The actors discussed preseason football. It wasn’t interesting.

Next take, they didn’t make it through the first line before the cinematographer said, “I see cables in the lower right frame.”

“Cut!” shouted the First AD. Someone removed the offending cables.

On Take Seven there was a loud clattering offstage as some unlucky person tripped over what sounded like a tower of pots and pans. I could almost see steam coming out of the director’s ears. The First AD shouted, “NO MOVEMENT ON
THE STAGE!” I’d been considering sneaking out. I changed my mind.

According to the guy clapping the slate, shouting, “Scene Twenty, Take Eleven,” (mildly satisfying) they did fifteen takes (unsatisfying). After an eternity, the director announced, “We got it.” I was anxious to see the female costar, in the next scene. The crew scurried, moving cameras and shifting cables. I wished I had something to read. After twenty minutes, the First AD called “First Team!” To my astonishment, Colin and the Chief resumed their positions.

“I thought we were done?” I whispered to a hair person.

“We’re done with the establishing shot. We still have the medium shots, the close shots, and the extreme close-ups of Colin.” His tone was bored.

“For the same scene?” That could be over forty repeats.

“Different camera, lighting, and sound positioning for each.”

“How long will it take?”

He shrugged. “Depends on Colin getting his lines right, the equipment working, and the director being happy.” His eyes never left his iPhone. “I’d settle in.”

I did, wondering if Clark had been getting me back for the tie thing after all.

I
t was 9:30 when Laura found me drooping into my tea. Waiters had begun to give me the side eye. I’d dozed off several times, like in math class, starting back awake. I’d left
Black Angus
after two tedious hours, not getting close to the next scene. Filming was
not
what I’d envisioned. A Monopoly tournament was more gripping. Cooling my heels at the Sidewalk Café afterwards, waiting for Laura, was no thrill ride either. I’d drunk endless cups of herbal tea, wearing the carpet thin to the bathroom. I was desperate to put my head down
somewhere designed for sleep. I missed Oliver, silent treatment and all.

Laura looked frazzled. It might have been the head feather though.

“What a day!” She plopped down. “You’re lucky, you’ve been kicking back.”

I blinked at her. I’d gotten up at six to break camp. “Let’s go lie like vegetables on the couch.” I voiced my wish. The idea was heaven on earth.

“Hmmm? Yeah, for a minute. Minka’s coming at ten.”

“Minka?”

She looked at her watch. “Oh Gawd! I barely have time to change!” She jumped up.

“Change?” I left a generous tip to redeem squatting. Laura was halfway out the door.

“I can’t wear this, silly!” She smiled over her shoulder, as if I’d said something hilarious.

“Wear that where?” I trailed after her.

“It’s Wednesday!” She looked at me with her big eyes. I struggled to recall the import of Wednesdays. She looked disappointed. “Wednesdays are Buffalo Club.”

“A club?” My mind struggled. I was dead on my feet. Laura kept up a good clip. “Wait…my car,” I remembered.

“We’ll get it tomorrow.” She didn’t pause.

“But I have to get Oliver.”

“Oliver?” That stopped her.

“My bird,” I reminded.

“You brought your bird?”

I frowned. “Of course. What else would I do with him?”

“Oh. I dunno, leave it or give it away.” My mouth dropped open. She registered it. “Okay, okay, we’ll get your car.” She followed me to where I was parked, muttering, “Minka’s gonna be pissed if I’m not ready…”

We drove down an alley in Venice Beach and parked by a dilapidated entrance to a more dilapidated unit in a dirty stucco building. It didn’t look promising. Laura hurried in and disappeared into another room. I would learn it was “the” other room. The apartment was filthy. A biscuit-sized living room held a battered mustard sofa, an ancient TV with tinfoil-encased rabbit ears sitting on a cement block, and a scarred coffee table piled high with
Us Weekly, Star, OK!
and
In Touch
magazines. April would have loved it. I couldn’t blame Laura for the volcanoes of clothing and pizza boxes everywhere, because they obscured the dismal putty-colored carpeting. The adjacent kitchen was stocked with appliances from 1952. I could cross both rooms in eight strides. I peeked through the only doorway to see Laura’s back half sticking out of a closet in an even smaller bedroom. I looked back at the sofa and decided I was going to become quite acquainted with the water stain on the ceiling above it. I hoped the pile of books replacing the missing leg would hold. I recalled the “awesome beachfront pad” from Facebook. The depths of Laura’s imagination were becoming apparent. I blocked an image of Ruby’s downy bedspread. This wouldn’t be for long.

I returned after retrieving Oliver and my suitcase from the car to find Laura decked out in a tulle-swathed costume rejected by Swan Lake but embraced by Bjork. She was considering an array of gaudy beads when an equally exquisite vision pranced in. Her dress looked like a belted garbage bag designed by Spock, but a garbage bag would have been longer.

“Oooh, I
love
the turquoise belt,” Laura squealed.

“Those pink go-go boots are
darling
.” The Minka creature stuck to script.
Formulaic
was a good word to know in Los Angeles. “It’s soooo
Lola
! Perez Hilton is gonna love them!”

“Do you think so??” Laura squealed again. Oliver squawked
in protest. This brought their attention to me. Silence fell. “You can’t wear that.” Laura spoke first.

“Oh.” I regarded my perfectly normal jeans and T-shirt. Then saw my easy out. “I
know
. I’m
soooo bummed
. Everything I have is all packed and wrinkled. I
can’t
go like
this
.” My formula was Devastated Martyr. I suspected it was a personal favorite of Laura’s. “You guys go ahead. I’ll be okay.” Big sigh. Sad face.

“You could wear something of mine,” Laura offered reluctantly. I panicked.

“That’s so sweet! But you’re such a pencil! I’d never fit!” Her expression approved my words. “Really—you guys go. I’ll be ready next week!”

“Next week?” Minka giggled. “Tomorrow is Villa!” With that and twiddled fingers they were gone and I was left with blessed calm. I was so happy to be alone I didn’t mind the musty apartment. I opened the fridge and found a sad jar of expired mayonnaise, some withered carrot sticks and half a lemon. Instead of stacks of frozen pizza, the freezer held a dozen Butterfingers, two bottles of Vodka and the aura of an eating disorder.

I took a Butterfinger. Laura hadn’t given me a key, so a food foray was out. I gave Oliver a wilted carrot.

“At least we can get some sleep,” I said.

“Fuck me.” He turned up his beak at the limp vegetable. Too tired to argue, I shook out my sleeping bag. I didn’t want direct contact with the couch. I tried not to think about mold spores. I was digging for my sweats when my fingers brushed something familiar. A wave washed over me. My hand jumped to my sweats and I began to chatter.

“We’re Los Angelinos now, Oliver. I’m going to have to get you some shades. Ray-vian Bans maybe? Guess I have to change my name to something hipper. What do you think? Mimosa?
Sparkle Snowflake?” I stopped babbling long enough to brush my teeth in the pocket-sized bathroom. “I think I can touch both walls with my elbows,” I called to Oliver.

I returned to the living room and settled on the sofa. I flipped through a magazine but couldn’t generate interest in singing brothers or emaciated actresses. My eyes strayed to my pack. I tried the magazine again. I was wrong every time I guessed which celebrity wore the same dress better. I gave up. I rooted in my pack, and gently withdrew the story.
My
story. I curled against the cushions, already soothed as I started to read about a girl who loved to climb trees.