The Second Assistant (10 page)

“Bob, this is awesome!” I practically sprinted from the smooth, cool leather seats of the car and into Dimples. And as Bob handed over the twenty-buck entrance fee to the cashier, I was already wiggling my hips to “It’s Raining Men,” which was being sung by an accountant from Long Beach and was pulsing through the darkness and tinsel.

“I’m glad you like it.” Bob smiled.

I tried to take his hand and drag him toward the shabby but sparkling stage. But he seemed to have a purse with him.

“Put your purse down and come dance with me,” I demanded shrilly.

But instead Bob put his purse down and then began to take something out of it.

“What are you doing? I want to dance.” I waved my arms about a bit and moved to the music. “Do you think I can take my turn on the karaoke next?”

“I’m sure you can, baby. But first let me set up my little piece of equipment here. I’d hate to miss your moment of glory,” Bob said calmly.

“You’re going to take a photo?” I asked as I looked down at the camera he seemed to be assembling.

“Oh, it’s just a little digital home movie. For fun.”

“Okay. Well, just hurry up.” I sailed off onto the dance floor and began to get very into some wordless anthem. Which was highly
uncharacteristic behavior for me. I do not dance voluntarily. I have never been to Ibiza, and, most significantly, as I’ve already mentioned, I cannot sing.

But for some reason, which would become horribly clear to me later, I didn’t let any of this stop me from getting up onto the stage at Dimples some three minutes later and belting out “I Don’t Want No Scrub” by TLC. It was the most appalling rendition of that cool song that anyone, anywhere, ever, has heard in their lives. And this is not a case of me being modest when really I have the voice of a nightingale or Aretha Franklin. For I do not.

After my moment of glory, after I had fondled Big Bob on the dance floor a little, after I’d cozied up to him in the back of his Town Car while he made a phone call on the way home, Alfredo dropped us off at the afore- and oft-mentioned house in the Palisades. Which I had to admit was pretty spectacular. But nothing I hadn’t seen a hundred times on
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
Bob brought me a glass of wine, and I aimlessly looked at his paintings and the framed photographs of him with Bill Clinton (every home in Hollywood, it seemed, had one) and with Barbra Streisand and Nicole and George. There was also a white Steinway piano in the corner of the room overlooking the Olympic-size swimming pool.

“Do you play?” I asked as I leaned over the instrument and tapped out my schoolgirl “Greensleeves.”

“Oh, yeah, I play.” Bob sidled up to me and began kissing my neck from behind.

“No, I meant the piano, silly.” I laughed and shrugged him off. I still felt quite restless and was lost without music. “I know, let’s dance.”

“Here?” Bob asked, obviously a little exhausted by me by this stage.

“Sure,” I giggled. I went over to his NASA-like music center and tried to fathom out some music. When I finally had Fifty Cent blasting out, I turned around and saw that Bob was asleep on the sofa, a whiskey in his hand and a trickle of saliva trailing down his chin. I turned the music down in order not to wake him and wondered what to do next. I tried to shove him in the ribs, but he didn’t stir. I wasn’t about to dance alone, and I was sober enough to understand that I didn’t want to still be here in the morning. So I set about looking for the phone number of a taxi company.

In fact, with all the manic energy I had, I practically turned Bob’s house upside down looking for a number. I just ought to have called 411, but I had been brought up to believe that that was lazy and wasteful, so I valiantly sought the White Pages in order to save Bob forty cents. I looked in the kitchen, the hallway, the living room, and then I found his home office. But there was no White Pages there either, just a few scripts, a fax machine that had the weekly BO charts spewing from it, and a mountain of videocassettes—teasers for all of Bob’s crappy movies—but no taxi number.

By the time I found my way to the bedroom, I had abandoned any hope of finding the damned thing and decided to just pick up the bedside phone and call 411. Bob could probably afford it, I guessed. I dropped down onto his maid-made, luxuriously blanketed bed and ordered the taxi that would get me the hell out of here before Bob woke and came to find me. Which I was not looking forward to. As I waited for the cab to arrive, I flicked on MTV at low volume (lest the lord and master should wake up) on the vast television set at the foot of the bed. (Do you really think that Hollywood Man can get turned on by just the woman he’s with? Of course not. He’s an inveterate multitasker and can happily give or receive oral sex while enjoying the highlights of a football game or an old Rolling Stones video on VH-1.) And that’s when I saw his video collection and realized that not only was Bob a famous producer, he was also a not-so-famous director. And his hits included positively low-budget pieces of art such as:

Elaine (Fox Searchlight) sings “I’m No Angel,” June 2000

Jennifer (CAA) sings “Dangerously in Love,” December 2003

Janie (Dreamworks) sings “Big Spender,” April 1997

I scanned down the towering, chronologically arranged collection of videos until I saw a couple of names that I recognized.

Talitha (The Agency) sings “It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over,” June 2001.

Courtney (The Agency) sings “Hit Me Baby One More Time,” August 2001

I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. Whether to run or slot one of the videos into the machine and watch. Instead I sat and stared at the titles in horror, imagining the copy of

Lizzie (The Agency) sings “I Don’t Want No Scrub,” April 2004

which was sitting in Bob’s camera case in the other room. But just as I was about to remove my shoes and sneak in to retrieve it, there was a ring at the doorbell. I flew, faster than a bat out of hell, toward the front door, to prevent my cabdriver from ringing again and waking Bob. If he hadn’t already.

“Hello,” I whispered as I opened the door. “I’ll be right with you. I just have to get my purse.”

“Hi, I’m Naomi.” Standing at the door was a pretty girl about my age in a pair of knee-high boots and a short black coat.

“Oh, hi,” I said, very happy that I was to have a woman driver.

“Shall I come in?” she asked.

“Sure, step inside. I won’t be a minute.” I tore back down the corridor and into the living room, where Bob was thankfully still snoring loudly. I looked around for his black camera case, which I felt sure must be here somewhere.

“Do you want me to go into the bedroom or something, then?”

I turned around and saw that Naomi had followed me and was taking off her coat to reveal a small red dress with cutout bits.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Well, I could just go on through and get comfortable, while you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” she said and licked her lips at me. I blinked once or twice.

“You’re not my taxi driver?”

“No, honey. I’m not your taxi driver.”

“Oh,” I said. “Are you a friend of Bob’s?”

“I’m whoever’s friend you want me to be,” Naomi said, pushing her long, wavy black hair over her shoulder and stepping toward me. “But I think that Bob asked me here to be with you.”

“He did?” My voice didn’t sound like my own.

Naomi was standing very close to me and put her hand on my
shoulder. “You’re very pretty. Why don’t we just go on through, and he can join us when he wakes up.” Naomi had clearly been here before and knew her way to the bedroom, because before I could protest, she had me by the hand and was leading the way.

“Right, thanks,” I said. “The only thing is, Naomi, that with Bob being asleep . . . well, whatever it was that you wanted me to do . . . well . . .”

“Sshhhhhhh,” Naomi said. She may have been my age, but she clearly had a lot more confidence than I did, because she turned around, put her hand on the back of my neck, and kissed me on the lips. I’d never tasted another woman’s lipstick before—it was odd, really—but just as she slipped her tongue into my mouth, there was another buzz of the doorbell.

“Oh, that’ll be for me,” I said as I pulled away from Naomi. “I have to go.” I ran back into the other room, where Bob was doing a very fine beached-whale impression, and thankfully spotted the camera case under a table. I pulled it out, ripped open the Velcro, and extracted the tape from the camera,

“You’re going?” Naomi stood in the doorway watching me.

“Yeah, sorry, no offense or anything. It’s just that my cab’s here.”

“So what about me?” she asked with a shrug. It was then that I realized that she’d need to be paid. I looked at Bob, gelatinously sprawled over the sofa making grunting sounds, and remembered that I’d seen him put his wallet into his left trouser pocket. I gestured to Naomi to be quiet as I tiptoed closer to Bob, reached one shaking hand into his pocket—which, let me tell you, is as near as I ever wanted to get to the unthinkable—and with more skill than Fagin, I picked Bob’s pocket. I handed Naomi her money, plus a very generous tip, and we shared a cab back to Venice. Leaving Bob oblivious to the fact that he’d just slept through one of the best nights he’d never had.

Further inquiries at the office on Monday morning verified that yes, if I’d bothered to ask a single assistant, she could have told me that this was Bob’s specialty—dinner at Spago followed by a swift hit of X slipped into the nightcap (I told you, I never dance sober, and I especially never sing. And even though I’m a sweet girl, I’m not enormously affectionate and tactile with unattractive strangers, so there had to be a chemically induced reason for my behavior), and then a Night of Karaoke Shame captured for posterity on camcorder, followed by a
spot of girl-on-girl action. Thank God I escaped and got the tape, is all I can think, because even though Bob’s video collection featured more D-girls and assistants than Fred Segal on a Saturday afternoon, I would without a shadow of a doubt have gotten the Academy Award for Worst Dressed and Most Tuneless. And no matter how nice Naomi was and how much we laughed at Bob on the ride home, not to mention how ghastly he and his kind were, I hadn’t quite given up on the boys yet.

What’s the going price on integrity this week?

—Orson Welles as Jonathan Lute
I’ll Never Forget What’s ’Is Name

A
fter Bob, I swore off dating. There was really no other choice. I clearly wasn’t equipped with the emotional or physical armor that one needed to be romantically successful in Hollywood. And while I was sure that there must be a book that I could read about the subject or a seminar that I could go to and learn “How to Find the Love of Your Life in a Town of Sleazoids,” perhaps along the lines of Robert McKee’s legendary screenwriting course, I didn’t have the time right now. I was inundated with a pile of scripts that Victoria had given to me for coverage, I had at least 750,000 lunches to organize for Scott, and since Lara had an assignment to hand in for her online novel-writing class, I also had to cover all her phone calls and coffee runs. In fact, my elbows had become as permanent a fixture on the counter of the Coffee Bean as the jar of three-dollar brownies and the tips cup.

“The usual, honey?” Jason would say as I walked in his shop looking once again as though I’d just spent a relaxing half hour in the electric chair.

“Yes, please.” I’d prop my chin up on my hands and gaze at the speckled Formica in the hopes that it would enlighten me as to just what, exactly, I was doing here. In this town where all my paper cuts and spilling guts and sleepless nights worrying whether I’d
remembered to tell Scott that his hottest young director’s new movie was going to come in $76 million over budget as of week two of a sixteen-week shoot in NYC. (A city where you couldn’t shoot yourself in the foot for less than $3 million per day, by the way.) Because if I hadn’t remembered to tell Scott, I’d find myself standing in his office the next morning being promised all sorts of new orifices, to be torn lovingly by hand by my charming boss.

This morning as I walked into the Coffee Bean, I noticed that The Assistants were back. Max Fischer’s assistants, to be precise. They were huddled in a crumpled heap around a corner table—all six of them—their faces bloodless and their expressions pained. I tried not to look at them—it was too miserable a sight—and made instead for Jason, who was, as usual, standing behind the counter. But actually Jason looked almost as bad as I felt, and not much better than The Assistants. He had dark circles under his eyes that were beyond poetic, and he’d just burned his fingers on the espresso machine.

“Was it a late night?” I asked as I assumed my customary position at the counter.

“An hour of sleep before I had to be in here at six.”

“Wow, was she hot?” I smiled, pleased that someone had a love life. Even though the idea of Jason with a girlfriend wasn’t entirely pleasing to me. It wasn’t that I had a crush on him, exactly. Just that I felt at ease with him, and knowing that there was this sweet, funny guy out there whom I might one day see outside of the Coffee Bean, even if only as a friend, was a comforting thought.

“No such luck. I was up finishing my screenplay.”

“You’re a writer?” I asked, feeling suddenly guilty that I’d known Jason for almost a month and I’d never seen him as anything other than a professional milk frother. That was how self-absorbed I’d become. I used to be the kind of girl who knew the names of the kids of the man who installed new software on our office computers in D.C. What was happening to me?

“And director. It’s my first screenplay. And now that it’s written, the hard work begins.” He ran his singed finger under the cold tap.

“That’s great, Jason,” I said.

“You can read it if you like. I’m looking for a producer.”

“Well, sure. I mean, I have a whole heap of stuff to read this
weekend, but I’m sure that I can get around to it soon, and then I can help to come up with a list of producers that you could send it to. Not that I’m an expert—I mean, I only know what I overhear in meetings, but—”

“I meant for
you
to produce. You do want to produce, don’t you? You’re a smart girl. I assume you’re not planning on being an assistant forever?”

“Well, yes. No. I mean . . . I have no idea,” I said. Realizing at that moment that I really didn’t have any idea. My dreams for
Crime and Punishment
had never gotten much further than the gown I was planning to wear to the Academy Awards and whether I should borrow my jewels from Harry Winston or Bulgari. Whether I wanted to produce, direct, or turn it into a porn version of the thing had frankly never occurred to me. Which went to show how passionately committed I was to my new career.

“Elizabeth, you’re hilarious.” Jason gave his first smile of the day.

And though I was glad to have been instrumental in cheering him up I was disturbed by the fact that I appeared to be up the proverbial creek without either a paddle or a game plan. Did I want to produce? I had no clue. I furrowed my brow and looked back at the Formica hopefully.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you a copy right now. Then, if you get time before the big read over the weekend, I can attach you as producer before it’s snapped up by Spielberg. Okay?”

Jason grinned, but I knew from the look in his eyes that his deal with Spielberg was as carefully dreamed up as my pale blue chiffon, floor-length, boatneck, low-back, embroidered-waistband Alexander McQueen dress for the Oscars. The only difference was that Jason had a real chance of achieving his dream. He was doing something about it. I, on the other hand, was just a human conveyor belt for coffee and phone messages who was going nowhere fast because she had no more profound destination in mind.

“Okay, I’d love to take a look,” I said as Jason wrested his magnum opus from his backpack. “My sister’s coming into town sometime this week, so I may not be able to get to it right away, but I promise to look at it as soon as I can.”

“Cool.” He handed over the script and gave me my chai latte for free. “You can be as honest as you like. But just to give you a heads-up, I think that I can probably make it on digital, using non-SAG actors,
and we can definitely shoot some of it illegally in New York if we don’t have the financing.”

“Wow, you really know what you want!” I said to Jason, who had switched from coffee frother to underground-director mode in the blink of an eye.

“Of course I do. I’ve wanted to make this movie since I was fourteen years old. I’ve made seven shorts on a similar theme, I wrote my first draft in film school, and I’ve been revising it ever since. And every night I go to bed and see the scenes in my head, every frame.”

“I’d love to read it” was all I could say. Before inanely adding, “Thanks for the latte.”

Then I turned to go. But just before I reached the door, it smashed open and a small man with red hair and a beard came tearing through it. I instinctively took a step back to avoid him,

“I knew I’d find you in here, you bunch of hand-holding crybabies!” he screamed when he spotted The Assistants cowering in the corner. “What the fuck are you doing here?” They all looked up in terror.

“You fired us,” said one of the guys in a quiet, quivering voice.

“I fire you every fucking day! It doesn’t mean that you get to come and drink coffee! Who’s answering my phones?” He stood there and bared his teeth at them from behind his angry little beard. “Who’s typing my letters? Who’s running my fucking company, hey? Answer me that.”

But The Assistants didn’t answer. They were dumbfounded. After a few paralyzing moments of silence, Max Fischer, one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, picked up a cup of coffee from the table that his young assistants were gathered around and hurled it at the wall. They all turned and watched, with splashes on their faces, as the remainder of it dripped down the orange wall.

“Get back to the office now, you bunch of whining pussies! Or you’re all fired!” Max Fischer said, this time in a low, treacherous voice. Then he left as quickly and dramatically as he’d arrived. He was followed by all six of his assistants, who trailed after him like lambs to the slaughter. When I turned around to see Jason, he already had a mop in his hand and was setting about clearing up the mess.

“Hollywood.” He shrugged. “Don’t ya love it?”

I shook my head and hurried out the door. Actually no, sometimes I didn’t love it.

As I walked out of the Coffee Bean into the warm afternoon, I was horror-struck by what I’d just witnessed. Also, I suddenly really didn’t know what I was doing here. Jason did, that was for sure, and probably each one of those assistants had a very good reason for putting up with that abuse, too. They undoubtedly had dreams and ambitions and would endure anything to get to where they wanted to be. But I wasn’t sure that I knew even slightly why I was here. Elizabeth Miller, producer. It didn’t sound right. Neither did any of the variations: senior VP, director of development, president of production, manager, or agent. And as for second assistant? Well, it just wasn’t me. I really didn’t have the drive, I realized. I suddenly didn’t know what I was doing in this town, where I had no discernible talent for anything that meant shit to anybody. Sure, I’d picked up a working knowledge of the industry, but then so had the guy who sliced bagels in my local deli. I also missed feeling as though I could make a difference to somebody else’s life. If somebody got better health care because of a comment I made in a meeting or if just one child got into college, then my job would be useful. But that was never ever going to happen in this town. And being surrounded by people who cared so passionately about entertainment and the movies that they were willing to put up with just about anything only made it all the harder to hide from myself what a wrong turn I’d made in coming here.

And so as I crossed the street back to The Agency, careful not to jaywalk with my tray of politically incorrect, capitalist-culture coffees, I decided that it was time to do something that had been weighing on my mind for a couple of weeks now. I think I had what is popularly known as an epiphany, which usually involves great swathes of light flashing across the heavens and holy choirs belting out hallelujahs, though it felt much more as if someone was shaking me by the collar and telling me that I was stupefyingly slow not to have realized this before: It was time to write up my résumé and call it quits in Hollywood. Which was decision enough to lift my spirits and make me practically skip back into the lobby, much to the bemusement of the terminally morose receptionists. I’d apply for any and every job going in Washington: I’d make coffee (no change there, then), I’d be a research assistant (just one word but also a world away from the dreaded second assistant), I’d cover somebody’s maternity leave—whatever it took I’d make
it up to the world of politics and forge ahead as if Hollywood had never happened.

When I arrived buoyantly back at my desk, Scott had already gone to lunch. Lara was at work on her assignment with a pair of Virgin Atlantic Upper Class earplugs in, and there was a note on my screen saying that my sister had finally called. I’d been waiting impatiently for her call for days now, and when I saw Courtney’s mean scribble on the Post-it, my spirits went positively stratospheric.

I dialed the number by her name. “Melissa?”

“Elizabeth? Oh, my God, how are you?”

“I’m great. How are you?”

This continued for at least two minutes before either of us could begin a sensible conversation. I hadn’t actually spoken to my sister in four months. Not because we were too busy for one another or because she had married my high-school sweetheart and we were no longer close, but because she’d been in Sierra Leone on a peacekeeping mission with the UN.

“So you’re home? You’re safe? You’re back?” I could hardly believe it. When I’d said good-bye to her in February, I had been convinced that I’d never see her again. And pretty quickly I had to get used to the idea that something terrible might happen to her while she was away. And that if it did, it would be because it was what she wanted. To help others, with her own life a secondary concern to her. Since that day my entire family had operated on the premise that no news is good news. We simply lived for the occasional e-mails she sent from some African schoolroom.

“Not only am I back, I’m in town,” she announced, full of life.

“You’re in D.C.?” I asked.

“No, you total idiot, I’m in Los Angeles!” She laughed. “Which is culture shockola, let me tell you.”

“You’re in L.A.?” I repeated incredulously until she finally managed to get through to me the fact that she was in town for one night on a layover and was planning on sharing my bed, the contents of my fridge, and a bottle of red wine with me tonight. Which suddenly made my life worth living. When I hung up, I realized that all the glamorous dates in the world couldn’t beat a night at home with my wonderful little sister. And I immediately began to plow through my work with the
ease of a seasoned careerphile. In fact, that afternoon anyone who didn’t know me might have been mistakenly led to believe that I actually liked being a second assistant.

And as I breezed through the minutes for the Monday meeting and chased up a $13 million check for my least favorite action hero’s last movie, I was even in the mood for a down moment with a couple of the other assistants.

“What do you think?” Talitha asked me when I walked back in the room after picking up a parcel from the front desk.

“About what?” I dropped the package straight onto Scott’s desk without opening it, as it was marked
UBER
-
PRIVATE
in pink felt-tip pen and didn’t appear to be either ticking or leaking anthrax.