Bicoastal Babe (11 page)

I drive over to the apartment to wait for her exit. The apartment looks nice – a long, sprawling building nothing like our brownstone in Manhattan. Palm trees all around, and a few blocks up, the base of the Hollywood Hills. Mental note to look for the sign later.

God, I hope Jen goes out tonight, or I’ll be sitting here for hours. I feel excitement low in my stomach – like I’m a private investigator casing his subject. With more time I could’ve even worn a disguise.

An hour goes by and boredom sleep is closing in on me fast. Finally a black Audi pulls up to the building and I see Jen bounce out and get in the car. She looks fabulous in tight black pants, sexy sling-backs, and a glittery sheath top that barely covers her breasts.

Follow that car,
I think, and pull out behind the Audi.

T
he Audi doesn’t go far. Back down to Sunset and onto the Strip, it pulls over to the valet stand at the Sunset Marquis Hotel. Ah, they’re going to the Whiskey, a classic hotel bar that even I’ve heard about. I watch as Jen gets out with a tall, attractive guy who hands his keys to the valet. At the door I see Jen checking in with the bouncer. Will my name be on the list too? I hope so. I’m about to waste ten dollars in valet parking if it’s not.

But it is. And the Whiskey is very cool—upscale and lush but also fun and laid-back. Right away I feel a shift. Hard to explain. It’s a different atmosphere than in New York. People look tanner and healthier, and their demeanors seem a little brighter and, though I hate to say it, a little happier. Not to mention that off in the corner, Ryan Gosling is hobnobbing with Heidi Klum and one of the guys from
Lord of the Rings.
Wow. Though my eyes never leave Jen, I walk around and make a mental note to bring Victor here when he comes to visit.

If that ever happens. Victor would despise L.A. “Plastic” is what he calls it. And yes, I do see a lot of blond hair, a lot of fake boobs, and a
lot
of skin. These L.A. chicks wear next to nothing. And they all pull it off – I can’t believe how many gorgeous bodies there are in here.

Even so, Victor would still scoff. “None of them do any fucking work,” he’d complain. “Ask them – they’ll tell you. They’re all
actors
or
writers.
What the hell does that mean? It means they’re either
waiters
out spending their tip money, or
freeloaders
out spending their daddy’s money. Posers. All of them. Get a fucking life.”

Victor doesn’t mince words. And he’s sure not afraid to express his opinion. And though he may be right on some level, it doesn’t change the fact that there somehow seems to be more laughter in the air, more openness than you’d find in a New York bar. So whatever their work ethic may be (or how much certain cynical New Yorkers may disagree with it), these Californians must hold the key to something. The key to what? Well, that’s my job to find out.

Jen seems to know people here. From where I’m standing (across the bar and as close to Ryan Gosling as humanly possible) she appears to be doing a lot more socializing than trend-tracking. I watch as she flutters around, flirting with the men (and the women, it seems) and downing champagne by the glassful. I catch myself thinking,
I want her life,
then remember that she can flirt all she wants, but I have Victor Ragsdale—and she can’t flirt with
him.

“Hey, there.” I hear a voice, and turn to face a handsome stranger in jeans, a sports jacket, and a T-shirt that says
THOSE GUYS
.

“Are you here alone?” he asks.

Can’t get too tied up in random conversation, so as not to lose sight of Jen. “Yes. No, I mean. Not really.”

“My name’s Brian. I’m a film director. Well, an aspiring film director.” I laugh, imagining Victor’s face. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Um…” If I accept his offer, I’m stuck talking to him, at least until I finish the drink. Any other night it would be a perfect opportunity to pick his brain on trends. But tonight – too risky.

“No, but thank you. I’m actually waiting for someone.”

“You’re waiting for me. You just don’t know it yet.” He winks and it makes me smile.

“Who’re Those Guys?” I ask.

“That’s my TV show.”

I do a double take. “Wait, you have a TV show, like, actually on TV?”

“Would you let me buy you a drink if I did?”

Shit. I have no witty response. Not even an un-witty one.

“That’s not what I meant,” I stammer. It’s the best I can do.

“That’s okay.” He shrugs it off. “I’m used to it. You L.A. girls are all alike.” (Ouch.) “But let me know if you change your mind.”

He seems nice, and he
is
cute. The vast majority of guys in here are cute, actually –
very
cute. But they’re not Victor. Not a single one of them.

I have to go to the bathroom, and I have to be quick. Chances are low, but if Jen steps into the bathroom at the same time, I’m toast.

Oh, God, there’s a line. And about ten women in it. What’s the matter with these places? Don’t they realize that if they’re half as successful as they hope to be, they’re going to need a bathroom bigger than two measly stalls?

I can’t stand in this line. I can’t risk having Jen walk in and see me. But I have to pee like a racehorse, as my beer-guzzling uncle Dan used to say, and my bladder is in no mood to be patient.

“Can I leave and get back in?” I ask the bouncer. “I’m on the list. Lindsey Miller.”

He nods. I step out and look around. The hotel takes up the whole block. The only space I can see is the lot where the valets are parking cars. I glance down the block, then back at the parking lot, a desperate whiny sound coming up the back of my throat. Okay. A person’s gotta do what a person’s gotta do.

I limp around the valet stand and back by the parked cars. All the valets are on the other end of the lot, so it looks pretty safe. I crouch down, hold my miniskirt up with one hand, and pull my panties to my ankles with the other. Ahhhh. No feeling in the world like relief. Not that I know, but I can’t imagine even a Tiffany diamond matching the feeling of finally going pee when you really have to go.

And on that note, I can’t imagine a feeling worse than when you’re squatting in the middle of the Sunset Marquis parking lot, and the car behind you suddenly turns its engine and flips on its lights. I freeze. I hear a gasp and an “Oh, my God!” but I’m too frozen to turn around. In fact, I’m so frozen that the pee has probably formed an icicle from my body down to the pavement.

The valet has come for this car, but by the way it sounds, the car’s owners aren’t too far behind. I scramble to pull my panties up. I want to make a run for it, but there’s a fence on all sides. All right, fuck it. I’m just going to stand up, laugh it off, and make like a cheetah, right past these people and back into the Whiskey. I’ll even accept that director guy’s drink. This is not a big deal! When suddenly –

“
Lindsey?
”

Jen’s eyes are as big as saucers. Her date is gulping back laughter so hard his head looks like it’ll fall off.

“What. The hell. Are you doing?”

“I got an earlier flight.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did.” That one’s true. “I called the apartment.”

“Yeah, and you hung up when I answered!”

“It was a bad connection.”

“Did you go to the apartment?”

“I’m actually… staying with a friend tonight.”

“And you just happened to turn up at the Whiskey.”

“I… uh… wanted to get a head start on the trend stuff.”

She looks skeptical. “So what have you uncovered?”

What is this? I have to stand here in a parking lot with my panties half-down, being interrogated like this?

“What have
you
uncovered?” I demand. “I saw you in there! Didn’t look to me like you were working very hard.”

“What have I uncovered?” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a mini-notebook, which she slams into my hands. “There. That’s what I’ve uncovered. You can have it. Pretend it’s yours.”

I don’t know what to say. Four pages of the book are filled with notes, very messy, obviously scrawled quickly in the bar bathroom or something.

Jen turns away, pulling her guy with her. “I’ll see you in New York,” she calls angrily.

As I stand there with the notebook, watching her get into the Audi, I feel like a real idiot. I am a miserable failure, and we all know it. Well, Liz Gordon may not know it, but I’m sure she’ll know it soon.

•   •   •

I barely sleep that night. Turns out, my rattrap hotel rents by the hour, and the walls are paper-thin. Not to mention there’s a rusty spring sticking straight up out of the middle of the mattress and my pillow has yellow, crusty stains on both sides of the pillowcase. Despite this misery, I can’t stop thinking about how I should enjoy Los Angeles as much as I can this week, seeing as I probably won’t be back anytime soon.

My horizon is grim. I try to shut my eyes, but all I can see are faces, one after the other. Liz Gordon’s look of disappointment when she finds out that hiring me was the worst thing she’s ever done. My friends’ look of pity when I arrive back in Chicago, not even a month after I left. Jen’s look of cruel amusement and victory when I’m fired and she’s promoted to “executive” trend-tracker. And Victor’s look of confusion when he sees me begging for change at Grand Central Station, trying to raise enough money for the Greyhound back to Chicago.

I sleep in the next morning (if you’d describe “sleeping in” as staring at black-and-white fuzz on a ten-inch TV for four hours until I’m certain Jen will have left for the airport). Then I drive to the apartment, which is actually very nice. Seveneen hundred bucks (which is what Gordon-Taylor budgeted per month for each apartment) gets you a lot farther in Los Angeles than it does in New York. It also gets you a hot tub and pool deck, an elevator, a dishwasher, central air and a laundry room on each floor. Not too shabby.

Jen has left me a long list of happening places to check out, along with a map of how to get around. I still have her notebook, which I have yet to read. I’m too afraid that it will contain a well of trend-forecasting brilliance that will sink me even deeper into my depression. To make matters worse, it’s been almost a whole twenty-four hours and Victor has not returned my call. I know I didn’t leave a message, but he had to have seen me on his caller ID. I bring my cell phone into the bathroom with me when I shower, just in case.

The shower is a great place to regroup. No matter how down I feel, a shower always helps, at least a little. Some people relieve stress by cleaning their bathrooms, scouring away at the toilets and bathtubs until their inner demons have been drowned in Scrubbing Bubbles. That’s me, but with my body. A good, soul-cleansing shower neglects no crack or crevice – big, foamy lather behind the ears, between the toes, belly button and all. And as a bonus, Jen has a shampoo in here that smells like peppermint, and makes my head feel cool and tingly as I scrub it onto my scalp. Perfect.

And I’m a shower singer too. A loud, tone-deaf, belt-it-out-bad singer of tunes that you’d almost always flip right by on the car radio, but that seem to reverberate with greatness when howled out to the pulsing beat of the steamy shower stream. A theme is always nice. And today, of course, the theme is California.

“Welcome to the Hotel California…” I start out softly as I carefully pull the razor up my legs.

“California dreaming… on such a winter’s day…” I pause with the sudsy shower poof. Wait a minute – I don’t even like that song.

“California gurls, we’re unforgettable…” There we go – except I can’t remember what comes after the “Daisy Dukes” line.

“I wish they all could be California girls!” I pull my hair up into a shampoo mohawk and growl at the tile wall like David Lee Roth as I continue the chorus, rinse off, and reach for a towel.

Somehow, when you’re out of the actual shower, you feel like you can’t sing as loudly. Like you’re naked without the sound of the water (despite that you actually were naked only a moment earlier and now just wear a towel). But I keep singing, repeating the one verse I know, hoping to keep my rejuvenated mood alive as long as possible. I wrap up my hair like a turban and brush my teeth, still attempting to sing past the toothbrush.

I hear the phone ring, but it’s the apartment phone – not my cell. I walk out into the living room (still singing and brushing) and jump a mile high when I see Jen sitting on the sofa, next to the phone, looking extremely amused at the entertainment.

“Coffee?” She reaches a large cup of Starbucks out to me. I’m too horrified to move. Smirking, she picks up the phone.

“Hello?” she says into it, her eyes still on me. “Yeah, this is Jen. Hold on a minute.” Jen puts the phone into her lap and gives me the once-over.

“Well, if it isn’t the next American Idol.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you left for New York.”

“I’m taking a later flight. We need to get some work done.”

“But I thought—”

“Go get dressed, Van Hagar. I have to take this call.”

I schlump back in the bathroom and contemplate excuses never to come out. I swear, God has shot this girl down to earth like a lightning rod of misery to make my life a living hell at every turn. And she’s not even that cool. Van Halen didn’t even
sing
that song—much less when Sammy Hagar was with them. Or does she already know that? Is her humor so urbane and sophisticated that she’s one step ahead even when you think
she
doesn’t get it?

See, this is what I’m talking about. She’s the kind of person whose mere presence makes you question yourself, standing in bathrooms, wasting your time trying to figure out what she means, and whether or not she’s laughing with you or at you. I hate those people. They act like they’re in this super-elite, members-only club of “cool,” in which only those who possess the most cutting-edge, razor-sharp wit will survive the torment of not “getting” a joke faster than the speed of sound (at which point the joke is turned on you and suddenly everyone is laughing in your direction, which confuses you because you’re still trying to figure out the original joke). This isn’t really a club, you know. It’s all in your imagination. But people like Jen make you feel like it’s real, and to me that’s close enough to warrant no fucking Christmas card from the Lindsey Miller residence, this year or any other.