Come 10:30, things die down at work. Since I breeze through the Times by early morning, it’s customary to place a housekeeping call with intentions to freshen up the Bistro’s magazine stockpile. I sit at the bar and bide time, flipping through Vogue, Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, People, Premiere, W…
In case your bag of tricks excludes reading between the lines, I’ve reached an uber preliminary mid-life crisis doused with this screaming need to broaden personal horizons. And on that similar note, if you fail to read between lines, I have to apologize. My brilliance far exceeds your realization.
Every now and then in the mid-afternoon, we’ll get a walk in. Usually, they’re key.
And by key, I mean they’re in town on “business.” I assure you that “business” in Los Angeles is like business in no other city.
I’ve talked with Grammy winners as they traded dirt on performing with Madonna.
I heard a genius physicist’s pitch on the next billion dollar-advertising breakthrough. Trust me, it’s legit…like shit from Minority Report.
And last week, when a lovely lady stepped into my empty bar, I knew my immediate future would be anything but uneventful. She was a sight, first and foremost…and just booked the swimsuit issue cover of…I probably shouldn’t.
But I will tell that the follow up joke went something like…”how ironic that THIS job for THIS magazine is going to pay off my credit cards.”
…
There’s a certain style of people in this world I instantly adore. Speak to me like you don’t give a fuck about how I’ll judge you…speak to me like you will never see me again for the rest of your life and I’ll give you my ears and more. She did, so I did.
Sure, bonus points are awarded to cover girls, but really…that only gets you off the ground. Again, planes don’t fly themselves. I anchored in. Off we went.
…
Two bites through her chicken wrap, we were dug in. She lives in New York with an actor boyfriend in Los Angeles. I instantly felt for her…braving the distance. She was eating lunch alone at my counter, spilling her heart to a stranger. It’s my genetics. Something in my face that says I’ll do you no damage. You can trust me, you can confide in me. I wouldn’t often advise people to do such things, but they do. She did.
She raised her arms in the air, giddy, “I’m having a kid.” From here on in, perhaps it would be best to work in dialogue. We’ll cut in and out, else it will take too long. And we’ll play one of my most favorite games: Spot the Red Flags.
…
-A kid! Congratulations.
-No, not yet. I came to L.A. to tell him that if he didn’t want to have a kid with me, I would find someone else.
-What did he say?
-He said okay.
-The ultimatum route. That’s…one way to do it.
-I’m 23, I want a kid.
-Does he work? At least enough to, you know?
-Yeah, he works.
-Is he good?
-Yeah. At least I think so. People say he’s pretty good. And he makes a lot of money.
-Throw me a name, maybe I’ve heard of him.
-@@@@@@@@
-The Oscar winner?
-Yeah.
-Yeah…he’s pretty really amazing fucking good.
…
The phones in the restaurant went quiet. She sat there for over an hour, as if waiting for a face we both knew wasn’t going to come. When we hit a snag in the conversation, she would drop gems like, “I can’t believe the pictures we were taking last night. They were out of control.”
She said it once, I laughed. She mentioned it twice, I smiled. After the third drop…
-Show me the fucking snaps!
Which led us into a conversation about the Colin Farrell sex tape. If you haven’t seen it, don’t. I wish I never did. Not that I rush out to see Colin Farrell movies, but I know I’ll never be able to give one an honest chance again. Hilarious.
…
She asked about the wildest thing I had seen at the hotel. Two weeks prior, the porn awards rolled through town. I went up to a room to drop a bottle of champagne and orange juice to three lesbian-ish porn stars. Ten minutes later, they called back, asking for a wine menu. Every ten minutes, they would call back. Sometimes for wine, sometimes for nothing but face time. Sweet girls…at least as far as porn stars go, I imagine.
I told my cover girl that on the last visit, they were all in bed together. It wasn’t much of a surprise. The walls had been slowly crumbling all afternoon. Truth be told, I was expecting it. They knew my shift was ending. I said goodbye with a side note that they brightened my day. Yes, I drop shit like that. As I reached for the door, one of them leapt up, kissed me on the cheek and verbatim…
-Punch out and get that ass up here.
…
-What happened?
-I didn’t go.
-What?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I’m a chick and I would have been up there in three seconds.
-Only one of them was hot.
-So?
-So, I’m tough like that.
-Give me a fucking break. I can’t believe you.
-It wouldn’t have been worth losing my job. I like it here.
-So don’t get caught.
-That’s not the point. And, let’s not forget, they were porn stars.
-Exactly!
-It’s possible we work on different levels.
-So you would never do something like that?
-I didn’t say that.
-What did you say?
-Not unless it’s worth losing my job.
-And how do you know?
-You know. You always know.
-I can’t believe I booked the red eye. I’m stuck here all day.
-Don’t you have any friends out here?
-They’re busy.
-What about @@@@@@@@?
-He’s…look, I’m not a fool enough to pretend he doesn’t see other people.
-Can I get you anything else?
-No, I’m good. I think I’ll just go to my room, 419, watch Fox News for the rest of the day. Kill time. 419.
