News Blues (8 page)

Now what did I do? We’d already ordered dinner. Did I sit in my seat, suck up my pride and eat my meal? Would I have to pay
for his? Did I even have enough cash on me for that? My credit cards were maxed and I hadn’t deposited my paycheck yet. I’d
come prepared to pay for my own meal, if it’d come to that, but not someone else’s. What if they made me wash dishes? Let’s
see, I had sixteen dollars probably left on my Mas-terCard. Maybe seven fifty on my Visa. If I combined those two cards with
the cash I had . . .

I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Why did I always end up crying? It was my body’s first reaction to upset, anger,
fury, whatever. So embarrassing. Especially when it happened in public places. I angrily swiped at my eyes with my arm.

“Maddy?”

I looked up at the voice addressing me. Into the eyes of an angel. Jamie stood at my table. How did he find me yet again?
It was like we were two soul mates, destined to keep running into each other.

“Jamie!” I cried, overjoyed to see him. I didn’t care if he had a fiancée. I didn’t care if our relationship stayed platonic
forever. At that moment I simply needed a friend. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Are you on your date?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. “Do I get to meet the famous blond-haired, blue-eyed Czech surfer in
the flesh?”

Shit. I was hoping he’d forget about that.

“He, uh, had to leave early.” I grimaced. “I did have a picture, but . . .”

I waited for him to tease me, but he didn’t.

“Didn’t go as planned, huh?” he asked sympathetically.

“Not exactly.” I sighed. “But he ordered before he took off, so if you’re in the mood for a chicken fiesta burrito, you’re
in luck.”

A ray of hope peeked through my dark evening clouds. This would be great. Jamie and I could have a nice meal. We could become
friends. Other diners would see that I wasn’t a loser who got walked out on by her date.

Jamie smiled. “I would but . . .”

“Jamie! Our table’s over here. Did you get lost?” A tall, anorexic-looking blonde came up behind Jamie and slipped her arm
around his waist. Protectively.

Oh. Jamie wasn’t alone.

Of course he’s not alone
, a jeering voice in my head taunted.
Who eats at a restaurant alone? Well, except for
you, you loser
. I suddenly realized this was the second time in a week Jamie caught me drinking by myself.

“Uh, Maddy. I’d like you to meet Jennifer. My fiancée.” Jamie said, succeeding to unintentionally rub salt on my wounds. “Jennifer,
this is Maddy. My new coworker at News Nine.” He introduced us so casually, as if I weren’t the other woman. The one who,
just days ago, he’d accidentally had sex with.

“Nice to meet you, Jennifer, ” I said in my best new-coworker voice. If he could be cool and grown up, so could I. “I didn’t
realize you had moved to San Diego yet.”

“She came down from LA for the weekend to surprise me, ” Jamie explained. I studied his face. Was he even the least bit bothered
by the introduction?

“To check up on him, more like, ” Jennifer said with a saucy grin. She poked him in the ribs. “Make sure he isn’t succumbing
to the charms of some San Diego beach babe.”

Ah-ha! There was the uncomfortable look!

“Well, it’s great to meet you.” I held out my hand. “I’m looking forward to working with your fiancé.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jennifer’s hand reminded me of a dead fish. Bony and cold. “Jamie, they’re going to give away our table
if we don’t get over there. And I’m
not
going to wait another forty five minutes.”

“Maddy, would you like to join us for dinner?” Jamie asked, ignoring or not picking up on her tone.

Would I what? No way. No way was I going to torture myself by going to dinner with Jamie and Jennifer. I would be a third
wheel. I’d have to hear about their wedding plans. I’d be nauseated when they called each other pet names.

Then again, I realized, this was exactly the kind of thing I
should
be doing if I wanted to get over my silly crush and develop a good working relationship with Jamie. After all, I’d agreed
to be friends with him, and friends had dinner together. Simple as that.

“Sure, ” I said with a big, overly cheerful smile. “I’d love to!” I rose from my seat to join them at their table.

It wasn’t really that bad actually, having dinner with Jamie and Jennifer. Not half as bad as eating alone would have been
anyway. Jamie insisted he had planned to order the same chicken fiesta burrito Ted had (even as Jennifer questioned him about
suddenly preferring chicken over steak) and proceeded to tell the waiter he’d eat my dearly departed date’s meal so it wouldn’t
go to waste.

“So, what’s it like to be a TV producer?” Jennifer asked after we had gotten our meals. She stabbed her salad with a fork.
A plain garden salad. That was all she ordered, making me feel like a heifer for having gotten the fried chicken quesadilla.
But screw it. After the embarrassment I’d suffered, I needed major carb–age.

“It’s okay, I guess.” I shrugged. What else could I say? That it was a hideous job with hideous people? That it proved on
a daily basis that journalism was truly dead? No. People didn’t want to hear that. They only wanted to know what anchor X
was like off the air and where reporter Y got her hair done.

“I’m actually trying out for this role of a TV reporter in a new Penny Marshall film, ” Jennifer told me. “Maybe if I get
it, I can interview you. Kind of get into character. I love method acting, don’t you?”

I had no idea what method acting was, though I was pretty sure it had something to do with Marlon Brando and James Dean.

“Uh, yeah. Method acting’s cool, ” I agreed, a little hesitantly.

“Method acting’s for freaks, ” Jamie interjected, taking a sip of his Corona. Damn. I so wanted to change my answer.

“Oh, I suppose you’re going to tell me that the great Lee Strasberg was a freak, too, huh?” Jennifer demanded, dropping her
fork with a clatter. “And that we actors are simply empty vessels, on set to illustrate an illustrious director’s vision and
not artists in our own rights.”

“You said it, not me.” Jamie said with an easy grin. “To me, method acting is nothing but mental masturbation. Feels good,
but it doesn’t get you anywhere. Why don’t you use your imagination instead? You don’t have to experience something to act
it.”

“Tell that to Mr. Robert DeNiro. Dennis Hopper. Some of the greatest actors of all time have been method actors.”

I forked a piece of quesadilla into my mouth, trying to follow the conversation without much luck. It was suddenly painfully
obvious that I knew nothing about Jamie and Jennifer’s Hollywood world. They seemed so glamorous, sitting there, dressed to
the nines, chatting about filmmaking, acting, and the rest. What did I have to contribute to this kind of intellectual discussion?
I was a fool to have thought Jamie would ever like me or relate in any way to my pathetic common existence. I couldn’t have
conversations about who directed this or what 1939 film dealt with that. I didn’t even go to foreign films ’cause of the subtitles.
I always said that if I wanted to read something, I’d hit the bookstore.

I watched as Jennifer pressed her point, hands gesturing, eyes flashing with passion. She had a dream. A goal. She studied
her craft. She’d probably be a famous actress someday. She certainly looked the part. Real pretty, with watery blue eyes,
pale skin and straw-colored hair. Kind of Paris Hiltonesque. No wonder Jamie was in love with her.

And Jamie—I glanced over at him—how his eyes were alight as he bantered back, easily countering her statements with intelligent
ideas of his own. I felt bad for him, being stuck at News 9 until the economy cleared up. He must feel so stifled, shooting
brainless news video. He had this whole world. This whole life that he had to leave behind.

“Uh, Jen? I think we’ve put Maddy to sleep, ” Jamie’s voice brought me back to the present.

“I’m sorry, Maddy, ” Jennifer said. “It must be so boring for you to have to listen to us drone on and on about filmmaking.”
She didn’t sound too sorry, actually, but I let it slide. After all, I was the one barging in on her date.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I straightened up in my chair, suddenly realizing I’d almost been asleep.

Jennifer excused herself to go to the bathroom. Once alone, Jamie turned to me and smiled.

“Sorry about that. Ever since she took Acting one-oh-one at Hollywood Community College she thinks she’s Cecil DeMille.”

Argh. I didn’t know who that was. I mean, of course I’d heard the name but I couldn’t place it to an occupation. I was so
subscribing to
Variety
when I got home.

“It’s okay. It was interesting.” I tried to sound convincing.

Jamie laughed. “Yeah, right. You’re a good sport. But Jennifer’s like a pit bull when she gets on a rampage like this. She
loves to argue. And I can’t help egging her on, she gets so pissed.” He took a bite of his burrito and chewed. “It’s how all
these Hollywood types act. They memorize a few directors’ names, throw in a couple obscure film references and they think
it makes them sound all intellectual. And then at parties they sit around and argue points that don’t even make sense with
one another. Each has no idea what the other is talking about, yet out of fear that they’ll be labeled wannabes, they pretend
to.” He took a sip of Corona. “I can’t stand when Jen acts like them, so I always call her on it. If she’s going to spout
off filmmaking nonsense around me, she’s got to at least know what she’s talking about. I don’t like being around pretentious
fakes.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I admittedly know zilch about Hollywood, ” I said, making a zero out of my fingers
and thumb. “In fact, I don’t even like artsy movies.”

“You know, most of these snobs don’t like art films, either. They simply pretend to so they’ll seem cool, intellectual.” He
grinned. “If they knew my secret love of cheesy eighties movies I’d probably be banned from LA.”

My eyes widened with interest. “You like eighties movies?”

He looked sheepish. “Not very manly, huh? Combine that with my love for eighties music and I might as well go around wearing
a skirt.”

“Actually, I think it’s very manly to admit you like something unmanly. Shows you’re sexually confident. So what’s your favorite
eighties movie?”

He thought for a moment. “Probably
The Breakfast
Club
.”

“I love
The Breakfast Club
.” I tapped a finger to my chin, thinking. “But my favorite would have to be
Some
Kind ofWonderful
.”

“Some Kind of Wonderful, ”
he repeated. “Yeah. I never got that one. I mean, why would Eric Stoltz spend the whole movie drooling over the boring, popular
girl, even though he had that smoking best friend all along? I mean, he made poor Watts actually sit through their date.”

“Right, ” I said, suddenly realizing the movie’s parallels to our present situation and hoped he didn’t think I’d brought
it up on purpose. Time to change the subject. “And then there’s
Pretty in Pink
.”

“That’s worse.” Jamie groaned. “At least in
Some
Kind ofWonderful
he ends up with the right girl at the end. Molly Ringwald screws poor, faithful Ducky in favor of that sissy Andrew McCarthy.”

“Hey, watch what you say about my boyfriend!” I laughed. “In third grade I was going to marry him, you know.”

Who would have thought I’d ever end up at a Mexican café debating the endings of John Hughes movies with a hot guy? Now if
only the hot guy in question wasn’t on a date with another girl, I’d be all set.

“What are you guys talking about?” Jennifer asked, returning to interrupt our debate.

“Eighties movies, ” Jamie said. “What’s your favorite, Jen?”

She rolled her eyes and turned to me. “Oh Maddy, don’t get him started. He’s like a girl with that stuff. You’d think he was
gay.”

I laughed. “It’s okay. I like them, too.”

Jennifer shot me a sympathetic smile, as if to say she understood I was just humoring her deluded fiancé and then launched
into another tirade about acting in independent films.

At the end of the meal, Jamie insisted on paying for everyone. I protested, of course. But he laughingly forced my money back
in my pocket. Then we headed out into the balmy San Diego night air and for a moment everything seemed all right with the
world. The two of them walked me to my car and both hugged me good night.

I got into my car and waved to them as they walked away. What a weird night! Definitely not how I planned it. But somehow
it all seemed okay.

Still, I was exhausted. Trying to be ultracharming through a whole meal proved more than a bit tiring. I couldn’t wait to
go home, crawl into my cozy IKEA platform bed, and go to sleep.

I pulled into my neighborhood about ten minutes later. Unfortunately, there was no street parking to be found. Sometimes this
happened on Saturday nights in Pacific Beach (known to the party-loving locals as PB). One resident would invite fifty of
their closest friends over for a little get-together and there’d be no place to park for the poor slobs who actually lived
there. I didn’t mind walking ten blocks back to my house as much as I minded the noise, and prayed that the party was on the
other end of the street.

Unfortunately, this time around the party noise seemed to be coming from my apartment building. Worse, as I got closer, I
realized it seemed to be coming from my actual apartment.

“What the hell?” I muttered as I fit the key in the lock. The door swung open. There was a rave going on in my house.

Techno music blared from my stereo. Kids in baggy pants, bright-colored T-shirts and even brighter-colored hair packed the
place to the brim. People were dancing on my beige sofa. They were smoking and flicking ash on my carpet. There was even,
I realized in horror, a smoke machine puffing out billowing clouds. The neighbors were going to think the place was on fire!

“Lulu!” I screamed, slamming the door. Like one of those ’80s movies we’d just been discussing, someone turned down the music.
Everyone stopped dancing. And stared. At me. The evil adult, come home to ruin the party. As I fielded their disgusted glares
I suddenly felt very, very old.