Story Girl (3 page)

N
OT EVEN TEN
minutes after I’d pulled out of the diner, Jason called me. He wanted to sweeten the deal with gourmet cooking lessons and free karate.

I needed a rain check on my reality.

Looming billboards seemed to mock me as I drove east on Sunset Boulevard. Hot sexy women with impossibly flawless skin whispered “old” through full, luscious, lightly glossed lips. Hot studs flaunting perfect abs and all manner of Bling turned their heads with cruel indifference as I drove past. Even the well-dressed pedestrians seemed to sneer, “So did you get the job at William Morris?”

This could not be my life, and yet… it was.

I was already thirty years old, heading back to my tiny studio apartment
room
and my frozen dinners that I would eat while sitting on my bed – since there wasn’t enough square-footage to allow for a table and chairs. And even sleeping wasn’t easy since the mattress was too large for the box spring – so every time I moved, the entire situation would wobble – not unlike a small boat adrift on a cruel sea.

How could the dream that lured me here curdle so completely? I had moved to Los Angeles six years ago, hoping to write blockbusters and meet my match – something like Harrison Ford and that
lady who wrote
E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial
. They were a smart, handsome couple and they struck me as equals.

But my writing hopes were crippled somewhat when Harrison traded in said writer for Ally McBeal. And so it was his fault completely that in the last year, I’d only managed fifty-one pages of an odd inner excavation piece entitled,
Space Boy
. And now I was officially stuck – firmly embedded in that treacherous state known as Writer’s Block, although it felt more like a block of concrete.

Nine out of ten agents totally ignored my previous script,
The Chains of Matrimony
. The tenth agent sent me an email that was probably meant as encouragement but came across as a near threat: NEXT TIME, CONSULT A SCRIPT DOCTOR!

And when I wasn’t blaming Mr. Ford for my woes, I resorted back to my standard position: blame my parents for everything. They’d been the ones who’d praised my haikus throughout childhood. They’d encouraged me to read voraciously and take English classes at the local community college. In a weird way, they were the ones who had pushed me here, and now they were selling me out to what I’d had the courage to flee in the first place.

My father had worked as a truck driver and my mother as a homemaker. The only person who’d had any ambition was my father’s younger brother, Derek; after what seemed like an eternity of school, he finally ended up as a dentist. Despite nearly naming his practice Jaw Breaker Dental Works and situating it in an isolated and crumbling strip mall, I was still quite pleased with his accomplishment. My younger sister seemed tailor-made for her roles as wife and mother, and I simply assumed she’d been born
after
her time. She didn’t seem to question anything that had already been taken for granted as unalterable reality, but on the rare occasion she would, it was with the same intellectual vigor one might expect from Elisabeth Hasselbeck.

But I did relate to Mary – my father’s mother. My grandmother seemed to be going through a never-ending metamorphosis, from Betty Crocker to Jane Fonda to Jedi Knight.

I pulled over at a Wells Fargo bank machine and studied myself in the rearview mirror: green eyes, nice mouth, messy brown hair hidden neatly under a ball cap – standard issue Tracy. I was now cutting my own hair to save money but could no longer tell what length it was. Maybe I really did need gourmet cooking lessons.

Shit.

I withdrew twenty bucks to pump into my Corolla. My remaining balance read $56.80, which would have to hold me for the next eight days. No more buffet lunches at Whole Foods, unless karma willing, I could somehow score the job or make something happen with one of my scripts. I had an older one in circulation at a couple of small production houses. In a last ditch attempt to make absolutely
anything
happen in this town, I wrote a cheesy horror flick entitled,
Morbid City
.

In the meantime, I just bounced around town working as a production assistant on various independent film projects. A few production coordinator opportunities had come my way, but the job looked way too scary and involved far too many details. So I was stuck with an unstable underling job and huge rent in refurbished Hollywood.

I had dared to roll the dice on total freedom in the search for my truest self; but the moments I had spent
looking
for ME were those I could never regain, and I was still lost – and without a thing to show for it.

And now my mother wanted me to just up and produce a family, of all things. But after that health depleting phone call from my parents, it was hard to even look at a kid; every time I saw one, I’d do the math and it wasn’t pretty. I’d probably be over half a century before the little bugger even left home.

When I finally pulled into my apartment garage, someone was already parked in my spot. Normally – like everyone else in L.A. – I’d freak out over such a thing, as a parking spot of one’s own is such a psychological asset that it almost makes up for the overpriced squa
lor that must often pass as an actual home. Still, I could no longer afford to go spastic over such trivialities – not after the skin fireworks I’d just suffered through.

I was now very aware of the mind-body-spirit connection and had to be careful to keep my thoughts somewhat calm, although I wasn’t sure that I could trick myself in such a complicated way. It was more likely that my subconscious anxiety was already sending dangerous mail to my physiology – much like some sort of sadistic Unabomber. So I wasn’t really sure what to do – bring my misery to the surface and dwell on it or try to focus on soothing things like flutes and sunsets and soap bubbles.

My cat was curled up on the hood of the culprit’s car. I wasn’t quite sure how to take that, so I just assumed she’d been waiting for me – ready to assuage any of my one million possible fits. She jumped through my open window and sat in my lap as I circled the block looking for street parking. It seemed half the cars were immobilized by a big yellow wheel lock, thanks to unpaid tickets and frighteningly efficient parking attendants.

I walked into my room wondering if I could end my gloom-fest with an overdose of frozen veggie dinners or just knock myself out with one of the mystery blocks of foil-wrapped freezer burn. I fired some broccoli hot-pockets into the microwave, and fell face first on my swaying bed.

The fork in the road had finally appeared and I wanted neither path, but the one that whispered
ogress
was by far the most intimidating – like walking straight into the nightmare of old age without an emergency kit. And I could see myself a little farther up the road – the long shabby grey hair, blowing wild in the fierce wind. As the old woman came closer, I could see that I was wearing every single rag I had ever owned. I suppose the layers kept me warm, and I probably had no other place to store them.

It was a horrible possibility, but I could clearly see her as myself – and man, was she pissed off at my choices.

Mickey Mouse rang me out of my nightmare.

“Hello?”

“What’s wrong?”

It was my sister, Jenny.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You sound like you’re in a major funk.”

“I sure the hell am not.”

“Anyway, I tried calling you on your birthday but you must have been sleeping.”

“I wasn’t sleeping on my birthday.”

“Funk,” she said.

“Give me a break,” I said, yawning. “I had a lot of things going on.”

My sister was the perfect weight and height for her twenty-five years. She was the type of woman people referred to as “petite doll”. She lived in Denver with her dapper husband “Luke the orthodontist” and their three-year-old daughter, Clarice. The name always reminded me of the Hannibal Lecter movie, but I never told her so. She had a staunch rule of never seeing violent films. Oh well – it was best to leave it alone – one small glitch in her picture perfect life.

“How’s the writing career coming along?”

“Just peachy keen.”

“I’m forever telling Luke that I can hardly wait for the day you’re nominated for an original screenplay Oscar.”

“Don’t be so insincere.”

“I am not! Oh my God, is that really what you think?”

“Yes.”

“I’m trying to encourage you.”

“Right.”

“I really am.”

“Listen, Jenny, I gotta go – dinner’s burning.”

“Is the microwave on fire?”

I hung up the phone, sick to my stomach. Claustrophobia was setting in – everything was too close together. The bed, television, microwave, closet, and toilet all crammed into one large square for only $1,025 a month. Oh, and a laundry facility in the basement and a parking spot I couldn’t use. What a bargain.

Tracy Johnston now starring in,
Lonely Adventures in The Room
.

I wanted to knock on every door in the building until I found the despicable thief who’d made me park half a mile away, but then I noticed the baking flour all over everywhere and was once again forced to let it go.

But then the phone rang again. It was the William Morris Agency, informing me that my position had gone to someone else a little more qualified.

No kidding.

chapter
4

T
HE NEXT MORNING
brought more hives.

This time they were of the more subdued pinkish variety. I almost called in sick but didn’t want to hasten the onset of my homeless and decrepit state.

Today would consist of me driving around the smoggy megalopolis in my own car with my own gas picking up random things for so-called important people on a movie set. It usually meant picking up donuts for craft services, props that the art department had forgotten, and extra film or tape. The job wasn’t hard, but it was starting to feel beneath me and I was always spending more money on fuel than I was reimbursed for.

The only thing that got me moving was the rumor that some hunky movie star would be putting in a cameo appearance on our little low budget fiasco. Hunky movie stars are good for igniting fantasies that can sometimes last a week or two, a special place far removed from the daily toil.

Patrick Dempsey lasted me a whopping thirty-three days, still a record in my fantasy department – where I had played the triple roles of nurse, patient, and mistress to Dr. McDreamy. Prior to that, George Clooney had got me through a ten-day stretch of a more brutal than usual menstrual cycle. But so far, none of my fantasies had ever included children or cooking or forced monogamy.

I washed down my Benadryl with strong coffee, and wandered around the neighborhood trying to remember where I’d parked my car the day before. My phone rang just as I walked up to a street that I’d swear I never heard of before – so I assumed that’s probably where I’d find my car.

“Hello?”

“Is Tracy Johnston there?”

“This is she.”

“Hi. This is Eric from Cold Blooded Productions. You sent us a copy of Morbid City.”

“Oh yes!”

“I’m Mr. Riley’s assistant. Anyway, when we turn down a script… we don’t normally call. I just wanted you to know that your premise is sort of cool, and you should continue writing.”

“My premise is sort of cool?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you’re sort of interested?” I had one eye closed and my fingers crossed when I asked this.

“No.”

“Okay!” I could’ve slapped myself for sounding so eager over a rejection.

“We’re passing on it.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hung up the phone feeling more dazed than usual. Another desperate hope dashed on an unfamiliar street in Hollywood – so far my day was shaping up to be just like any other.

We’re absolutely not interested, but keep writing
.

What the hell kind of encouragement was that? Well, fine. I’d keep on writing. And while I was at it, I’d just keep on counting particles of sand for the fun of it. Fuck it, I wasn’t going to
think about scripts, or ambition, or annihilated dreams one second longer.

Well – maybe just one more second because I couldn’t help but think that
Morbid City
still had a shot over at the Bloodhound Group – an eager little company known for producing a large percentage of the B movies and cheap horrors that came across its desk.

Even finding my car felt like a let-down.

Traffic on the 101 South was barely moving, and my radio had decided that this would be the day that it died. That was fine – I could deal. There were many ways of dealing with traffic gridlock. Even though my imagination hadn’t brought me any sort of an income, I could always count on it for more lascivious purposes. I was already in McDreamy-ville when my cell phone started to vibrate.

It was my best friend Sheila, a woman I secretly loathed but could not cut loose for fear of not having a best friend. And like a few others in Hollywood, I had no real idea what she did, but she seemed to have connections everywhere.