The Parable of the Girl and the TV

Father/Daughter

My dad had God; I had Nickelodeon. That was how each of us came to understand the world, respectively. My dad turned to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I sought the counsel of Doug, Porkchop, and Patty Mayonnaise, and picked up anti-authoritative strategies from Punky Brewster. As expected, our opinions on life often clashed.

My parents were strict and highly protective, so TV was the only way I could find out what was really going on in the world. We lived in suburban North Carolina, where the biggest commotion was lawnmowers in the morning, and the greatest threat was a weasel in your garden. My parents did everything they could to make me happy, but it was the television that let me run free. I had viewing restrictions of course; I learned how to “sneak watch” certain programs, keeping one finger permanently on the flashback button as I amused myself with The Grind, The Simpsons, and Beverly Hills 90210. Herein lay a whole new playing field propagated by obscenities, rap music and kissing with tongue. When my dad came into the room, I simply flipped back to Looney Tunes.

As a youth, my sole greatest longing was for a house with a staircase because every family on TV had one. The Huxtables. The Tanners. The Pickles. Everyone. I figured it would make life more fun because on the television, life seemed better. I’d build pretend stairs out of chairs, stools and boxes, and make believe I had to go up and down them in order to get to my bedroom. I don’t know why I thought this would improve my life, but I was certain it would.

My dad had grown up in poverty without any luxuries. He turned to the Bible for uplifting, as God seemed to fill the void in peoples’ lives like that. I heard missionaries on TV say they were bringing “good news to the poor,” probably telling them how great Heaven was going to be. People wanted to know something better was waiting for them. They wanted to believe whatever misery they were living in would be worth it. That’s sort of what I told myself about the staircase.

When I was in third grade, my parents took me out of private school because of a raise in tuition, and moved me to the real world: public school. I was ecstatic. No more praying before snacks. No more church on days other than Sunday. I was released in a place where kids taught each other cuss words on the playground, and pick-pocketed lunch money in hall lines. Freedom.

Since I wasn’t getting a proper Catholic upbringing in school, my dad insisted on teaching me the Bible himself.  “And it’s going to be a whole lot harder than those classes you were taking,” he warned.

 “Class” took place on Wednesday nights in my parents’ bedroom. I dragged in my white, mini-rocking chair and Barbie notebook and tried desperately to overhear the TV in the other room where my mother was watching Law & Order. We went over the sermon from last week’s mass then moved to a textbook he’d stolen from the Sunday school room at church.

“Can you believe Jesus brought Lazarus back from the dead?” My dad asked, enthusiastically. Every part of the Bible was amazing to him, even the glossary. He’d heard all the stories a dozen times, yet still was blown away.

“No,” I responded, unamused. I didn’t know who Lazarus was, nor did I care if he was dead.

“Lazarus had been dead for three whole days and Jesus brought him back to life,” my dad explained.

“Why?” I asked. If Heaven was as spectacular as everyone made it out to be, Lazarus should have been having a great time and not wanted to come back.

“Because Lazarus’ entire family prayed to God to save him, and God answered their prayers, as He does for everyone who believes. Jesus just lifted up His right hand, said a word to our heavenly Father, and then Lazarus walked out of the grave covered in bandages.”

“Like a mummy?” I asked.

He stared at me for a moment then began flipping to the next chapter in his book.

After awhile, my dad decided the Sunday school book was a little elementary for what we were trying to achieve. The book would condense stories of Noah, Moses, and Jesus into brief, child-like tales with art activities to accompany them. These looked great to me, but not to him. “Those are silly, Court,” he’d say, when I asked if we could do the “Journey Out Of Egypt” connect the dots, or Noah’s Pop-up Ark. “We don’t have time for games.”

Games were for kids, and I was on the fast track to the convent. He started combining the textbook study with his own biblical analyses.

“Who were Ahab and Jezebel,” he asked.

“Witches?”

“Well, they were wicked rulers, not exactly witches.”

“Oh.”

“And what did they do?”

That I didn’t know, however if he was interested in the identity of the rapist on tonight’s Law & Order, I’d narrowed it down to two suspects, and was just waiting on an autopsy report before I could provide an answer.

“What did they do?” He repeated.

“I forget.”

“What do you mean ‘you forget’?

“I just forget.”

A sweat broke down my back. My dad stared at me intently, but it wasn’t there. I shrugged my shoulders.

“Ahab and Jezebel were wicked leaders who spread cult worship of the pagan god Baal over Israel,” he sighed. “Jezebel’s servants threw her out of the bedroom window onto the street below, and her body was eaten by dogs.”

I began to envision the horrific scene. I selected the wicked stepmother from Snow White to play Jezebel, and Gaston from Beauty and the Beast for Ahab. I chose Doberman Pinchers with spiked metal collars as the dogs. Jezebel fell screaming from a tower made of stone like the one in Rapunzel, and everyone in the village watched while the Dobermans raced up and began pulling her to shreds. The town cheered and toasted Shirley Temples in honor of her demise. They hung her skull on the tip of a broomstick and paraded it around Israel (a close resemblance to St. Augustine).

“Really!?” I said. This was getting interesting.

My dad told me I needed to start paying better attention or my television privileges would be revoked.

The worst part of lessons was that every Sunday afternoon, when most families were at the park or having brunch, I had to take a test. The test was hand-written on a couple sheets of paper ripped from my dad’s yellow legal pad. It consisted of multiple-choice, true/false, and fill-in-the-blanks questions, all very tricky. For example:

Which was not a plague against the Pharaoh in Egypt?

a. Locusts    b. Frogs        c. Boils          d. Diabetes

And,

True or False: The three wise men gave Jesus presents because they were hoping He would trade them free passes into Heaven.

One question I remember as particularly difficult was the following:

Before Mary Magdelene gave her life to Jesus, she was a__________.

 “Virgin,” I wrote, and, as it was the last question on the test, handed it over my dad for grading. He’d been sitting right beside me the entire time, monitoring me as if there were other students for me to cheat off of or perhaps he’d thought I’d scribbled down a few notes in crayon on my hand.

“A virgin?!” He replied. “Have you been listening at all?”

“That’s not right?”

“No, it’s wrong; now tell me the correct answer.”

“I dunno.”

“Think.”

We sat in silence. He must have expected me to have some divine revelation, but that didn’t occur. After a few minutes, he snapped again.

“Well…what was she?”

“Are you sure she wasn’t a virgin?”

“I’m positive. Actually, she was the opposite of a virgin.”

I didn’t even know what a virgin was.

“A teacher?” I guessed.

“No.”

“An actress?”

“Why don’t you think about it before you just say whatever comes to your mind.”

I thought about it, but nothing reasonable came to me. I looked at my feet.

“I’ll give you a clue,” my dad said. “Mary, the mother of Jesus, was a virgin.”

I knew Jesus’ mother was good; she was the best person in the entire Bible except for Jesus. Mary Magdelene must be the worst person in the bible.

“Got it!” I exclaimed. “The devil!”

 “A prostitute! She was a prostitute!”

 “What’s a prostitute?” I asked.

“It’s a woman who sells her body. Courtney, you should know this by now.”

How could someone sell their body? I imagined a market place with rows of wood stands containing fruits and vegetables, and an array of dry goods. There was one stand with a bunch of people, all sitting on the tops of barrels, with price tags hanging around their necks.

He went on grading, and, as it turned out, I’d missed a lot more.

When the prodigal son returned home after running away, what did his father do?

            a.  Gave him a spanking for disobeying him.

            b.  Sent him to his room for a month.

            c.  Threw him a big party.

            d.  Made him do extra work in the field.

            Answer:   D  

When Peter denied Jesus, what bird crowed three times? An eagle.

Eve was created using Adam’s money.

How did Judas reveal his betrayal of Jesus?

            a.  He kissed Jesus

            b.  He hugged Jesus

            c.  He punched Jesus in the stomach

            d.  He threw stones at Jesus’ face

            Answer: D

True or False: Jesus made a blind man see by rubbing anti-freeze on his eyes. True

After enduring the agony of watching my dad cross out answer after answer, shaking his head in disgust, the test came to a close.

“No TV for a week,” he said, handing it back to me furiously.

“WHAT!?” I yelled, standing up from my rocking chair in protest. It was May Sweeps.

“You heard me. You can spend that time studying.”

I started to cry. “But that’s not fair! Give me another chance! Please! I promise, I’ll do so much better! I promise.”

“I know you will because you’ll have lots of time to study.”

I stomped out of his bedroom, past the living room where my mother was watching Geraldo and my baby brother was building a tower of blocks, and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I sat on my bed and cried for several minutes before deciding to pray to God for a new dad, or, if that wasn’t possible, to do cruel things to mine.

“He’s so mean,” I said to God on my knees. “He makes my life miserable!”

After my plea, I felt better. If nothing else, at least God was aware of what was going on down here. He would have no other choice but to punish my dad accordingly. I wondered what He might do though, considering Jezebel’s avengement. I didn’t want my dad to die. God seemed to have a pretty bad temper. If there was anything I’d learned from religion class, it’s that every malicious deed resulted in extreme retribution.

I got back on my knees, and decided to reverse my prayer. After all, I could have my mother tape my favorite shows. Anything would be better than finding my dad’s bloody head in the kitchen garbage can the next morning.  

“Dear God,” I said, “Please ignore my last prayer. I changed my mind. Hopefully, it’s not too late. Thank you. Can you also please show reruns next week? Amen.”

I felt better. A lot of times my prayers were answered—most of the time in fact. I decided someone had to be up there listening or it wouldn’t make sense. Maybe it was God or a holy messenger. I used to think there was an operator in Heaven who took down all incoming prayers and only passed along those of highest importance. When I would pray for things like an Easy Bake Oven or shiny, black tap shoes, my requests would go further down in the queue, after other prayers like needing a new heart. I swear though, I received most everything I asked for. I started wondering if the hungry people didn’t know they should pray to God for food; or if they did, had the operator screwed up their messages?

My dad told me to pray for forgiveness, for good health. Pray to go heaven, he’d say. Heaven would be a hundred times better than life on Earth. Everyone in my dad’s family was poor and religious. On the other hand, my mom’s family down in Florida had big homes and money, and they skipped church all the time. I decided I would compromise by attending church to pray for Barbie dolls. I thought God would want me to have a good time with the life He gave me.

After the failed test incident, I started studying more; I was terrified of how my dad might use God to take away TV. We finally moved into a house with a staircase, but it didn’t end up being as spectacular as I thought. It never made me as happy as Stephanie or Rudy. It didn’t change my life for the better. It was only part of a story.

You Can Have It

My Focus

I explained to my dad there was no point in wasting money on a new car for me when I moved to Los Angeles because I’d rather have a used car and spend the extra money on a painting.

“Are you joking?”  He scoffed.  “Your car is your most valuable asset.”

“No, I mean an original, Dad,” I said.

“An original what?  You need to spend your money on a car.  You don’t want it breaking down all the time, do you?”

I didn’t, but nothing brightened up the room quite like a painting.

“Use your senses,” he said.

So we bought a new car—a Ford Focus—and sure enough I didn’t take good care of it.  Within a year, I’d knocked off one of the side mirrors, and by the following year, I’d knocked off the other one, twice.  Additionally, I smoked in it, so cigarette ashes accumulated on the dashboard prompting one of my friends to ask me if the car had dandruff.

And every time I called home, my dad checked in on it.

“How’s your car?”  He’d say, as if my Focus was a kid growing up.

“Same,” I’d reply.

“Still running okay?”

“Yep.”

“Look good?”

“As good as a Focus can look.”

It was perfect timing then that, one week prior to my dad’s first trip to L.A., the Focus got side swiped at an intersection and was left with a dent and black scrape on its driver side door.  Didn’t bother me much; now it was gangster.  My dad, on the other hand, threw a fit.  He spotted the dent the second I pulled into the Embassy Suites parking lot to meet him, ripping off his prescription sunglasses to get a better look.

“Hi!”  I said, rolling down the window to greet him, my mother, and younger brother.  “Welcome to L.A.!”

“What happened to your car?!”  My dad yelled, his eyes narrowing in on the dent.

“Oh that?”  I said.  “Don’t worry about that.”

“What happened?”  He repeated.

“Hit and run,” I replied, which was a lie because the other driver had actually pulled over and offered me his insurance information, but I was late for work and didn’t feel like dealing with it.  Besides, it was more of a bruise than anything.

The real lecture came a few months later however, when my tax returns came in and I told my dad I was finally buying that painting I always wanted.  I might as well have told him I was going to sew the money together and use it for toilet paper.  In a last ditch attempt to motivate me, he proceeded to tell me a story about an old friend of his named Frank Keesler, who, he noted, was “very successful” and “worked in the Kennedy administration.”

Frank, decades ago, used to play golf with my dad and one day had noticed a dent in his car.  “Just like yours, Court,” my dad said.

Frank told my dad he absolutely had to get a new car because it made my dad appear unsuccessful to other people.

“See?”  My dad said.  “Do you want to look unsuccessful?”

“Well, I kind of am,” I said.

“Huh?  Why would you say something like that?”

“Look Dad, it’s different here in L.A. Everyone has a scratch on their car.  It’s practically an accessory.”

“No trust me,” he retorted.  “People are going to look at that scratch and think you’re unsuccessful.”

“They’re already going to think that when they see the Focus.”

Better to spend the money on a painting so when I was rich, famous and successful, I’d have something to hang on the walls of my mansion.  The Focus would be long gone by then, therefore the painting was clearly the more worthy investment.

A year later, nevertheless, and the Focus was back in the spotlight.  I moved into a fancy neighborhood in Beverly Hills because I knew someone who cut me a deal on a guesthouse.  It was located off the very well-to-do Doheny Drive, a route lined with homes all siphoned off by gates that required voice activated codes to enter the driveway.  The yards were sculpted by horticulturists; they had water fountains, rose buses, and ugly statues of half-naked people.  Palm trees and other tropical fauna blocked the more furtive estates, and you could often hear the splish-splash of rich kids playing in their pools while their nannies gossiped on the phone to friends.  The only drawback really was there was no parking available on my block; street parking was by permit only so I had to find a spot a little ways up the hill where it was unrestricted.

Every day, I hiked up and down Doheny to a side street where I could park with little concern.  It was annoying, but periodically I’d see Herbie Hancock walking out his front door, so I’d give him a nod, and in my head we were friends, and that made it all worth it.

One day, as I was leaving to run an errand, a bright red, sparkly Range Rover pulled up beside me in the street and stopped.  The man behind the wheel—a white, middle-aged guy in an Oxford shirt, with white hair as shiny as his car—rolled down his window.

So I rolled down mine.

“Hi,” I said politely.

“Do you live here?”  He asked, in a tone suggesting I couldn’t possibly.

“I live down on Cory Avenue,” I explained, “but it’s restricted parking so I have to park up here.”

“Ah, I see,” he replied.  “Well, that’s my spot.”

He gave a nod to the road indicating that the patch of street where I was parked belonged to him.  I turned and inspected the patch, then turned back and stared at him because I thought perhaps I’d misunderstood something.

“That’s my house right there,” he said, pointing to the New England-style manor behind us.  Evidently, because this portion of the street touched his lawn, it was his, in the same way that the air filling up my apartment was mine.

“I see,” I said to the man with shiny white hair.  “Well, I guess I’ll just pull forward a few feet and park there.”

“That’d be great,” he answered.

I determined it probably wasn’t that he was particularly partial to that spot, rather he didn’t want my Focus parked out in front of his manor in case people might associate the two.

For awhile I obliged the man’s wishes, but then one day, feeling bold, I decided to take the spot anyway because, well, fuck him.  I relished the thought of him pulling up in his Range Rover with Bon Jovi blasting on the stereo as he tapped his designer alligator shoes against the foot pedals, only to discover my Focus sitting there like a pile of dog crap in the yard.

It was brilliant.

So I did it. And the next day, there was a note on my windshield.  A typed note, which read as follows:

July 27, 2009

PLEASE PARK DOWN THE STREET

As a courtesy to the residents would you kindly park your car down Cordell a bit (just as the road starts to curve).  There isn’t a house there, so you won’t be STEALING a valuable parking space from us.

Thanks!

I was expecting something scribbled on the back of an envelope so this was like a Hallmark card.  A smile took over my face as I patted my dirty Focus on its back—who said you couldn’t be successful with a dent in your side?

I went ahead and parked my car down the street where he suggested (incidentally, it was in a ditch), but I also started snipping roses from the bushes in his yard to put in my apartment.  Stealing yet again, as that was my way.   I figured the roses would look really lovely beside my painting, and since they would just be dusting pollen on the man’s shiny, red Range Rover, I was actually doing him a favor.

My Painting

Does Anyone Need Money? I’m Giving It Away

As the end of the year approaches, I have broken down a list of all the stupid shit I’ve wasted my money on this year, in the hopes next year I won’t make similar mistakes.

MONEY WASTED:

Side mirrors I’ve knocked off my car:

Total knocked off: 3

Price per mirror: $250

Total money down the drain for inadvertent errors: $750

Cavities:

Total cavities: 2

Price per filling: $200

Total money down the drain for not flossing or going to the dentist for two years: $400

Car impoundment disaster:

Total for impoundment: $200

Total to obtain release from motherfucker at cop station: $50

Total for out of state license ticket and rolling stop sign ticket and court case (TBD): estimate is $3-500

Total money down the drain for apathetic attitude: estimate $750

Parking tickets:

One for not parking close enough to curb: $50

One for putting expired pass on car and thinking I was A-OK: $45

One for expired meter while having coffee with a friend: $50

One that I don’t remember why, but I remember getting: $45

Total money down the drain for not paying attention: $190

Coffee:

Americano every day, 365 days/year, $1.80 each

Total money down the drain for not lifting a finger and brewing myself: $657

Misc:

Borat movie ticket: $12.50

Parking to go see Borat: $3.00

Drake, Best I Ever Had, download on iTunes: $.99

The New Yorker subscription: $47

Stilettos from Aldo that make me feel like I’m walking on knives: $125

Stilettos from Marciano that look like knives: $90

Cover charges at Hollywood clubs: $50

Drugs to make Hollywood clubs tolerable: $100

The Wire episodes (two purchased on iTunes, accidentally out of order, therefore ruining ALL of Season 2): $4

A pack of Camel Lights and a lighter in Manhattan: $12

Hosting site for blog that I never update: $15

GRAND TOTAL OF DISPOSABLE INCOME THAT I SHOULD HAVE BUT DON’T BECAUSE OF PERSONAL NEGLIGENCE: $3,206.49

May this be a lesson to all.

Into The Wild

 

            This past July, I went on my very first and very last camping trip.  This was a mistake on my part for a variety of reasons, not least of which being my lack of stylish camping attire.  Camping, I determined, was essentially a great way of giving yourself more work to do on a vacation, and for no apparent reason.  It was like opting to build a log raft and paddle your way to Hawaii.  I went camping in Northern California with a large group of friends, all of whom were either camping enthusiasts or good sports.  I should have known it wasn’t the best idea for me, as I’d never found animals or plants to be all that amusing.  Watching a deer nibble on berries was about as fascinating as watching one of my friends eat a ham sandwich.  Same thing with zoos.  You’d spend a whole day standing behind fences in the hot sun, observing animals do nothing.  It was so dull that even the slightest movement, a yawn for instance, made everyone gawk in astonishment.  “Unbelievable,” they’d say when the lion scratched his ear. 

            My friends convinced me to go on this camping trip by saying things like “It’s so beautiful there,” and “You have to go at least once in your life,” and “We’ll all get stoned by the campfire.”  So, I agreed.  We drove five hours north to the Sequoias, another hour through the national park, then at last pitched our tents near a stream where bears wandered about looking for food.  Not an ideal location if you asked me, but no one did.  During the day we hiked and wandered about; we took pictures of trees.  At night we came back and cooked by the campfire.    

            Everyone always talked about how great the campfire was, and I’ll admit, it was nice.  You’d sit around the crackling light, making s’mores, telling stories.  It was cozy and endearing.  The bugs also loved the campfire however; in fact, they reproduced exponentially within minutes of its ignition.  And it’s hard to even enjoy smoking a joint when mosquitoes are swarming in your face.  Additionally, the second you stepped away from the fire, the temperature dropped at least 50 degrees.

            “Time to go chop more wood!”  Our camp leader instructed when the fire would dwindle. 

            Time to check into a hotel.

            The campfire had its perks, but not enough to justify the whole camping excursion.  When you woke up in the middle of the night having to go to the bathroom, but were too scared to step into the woods for fear a bear would claw your eyes out, the fact that you’d eaten a s’more four hours earlier was little consolation.  I tended to wake up several times a night, so placed into this context, each moment felt like a life or death decision.  Can you hold it?  Just for a little longer?  Just for a little, little longer? 

            And when I knew I couldn’t, I began to squirm my way out of the sleeping bag.  On one such occasion, Daniel, a fellow traveler, was woken up by my jostling.

            “Are you going to the bathroom?”  He asked.

            “Yeah,” I replied.

            “I’ll go with you.”

            “No, it’s fine.  I’ll be alright.”

            “Well, I would at least take an ax with you.”

            And here is my point: why would you ever have to bring an ax with you to go to the bathroom?  No reason I could think of was positive, and every reason involved my potential demise.  Truth be told, camping was not for me.  Being surrounded by wonderful people made it a worth the while, but I much preferred being around them in a posher setting.  You can still smoke a joint at the Hilton, and they offer fresh towels and a coffee pot in every room.

The Hunt For A Respectable Job Begins…

         Craig’s List was like the thrift store of life.  You could find almost anything there—furniture, concert tickets, sex—and all at considerably lower costs.  I even saw an ad for free decomposed granite once.  It was the world’s hand-me-downs, pitched as absolute must-haves with clever advertisement lingo.  One man’s trash, another gardener’s luxury.  The caliber of merchandise was questionable, of course, but if you rummaged long enough and hard enough through the crap, you could eventually score a diamond; persistence being key to successful shopping.  Also, like a second hand shop, you didn’t necessarily want to broadcast the fact you were shopping there until you found some fancy Gucci handbag for ten bucks, which made everyone gawk in envy.  That’s when you slyly mentioned it.  Because you weren’t cool if you had to shop at the thrift shop, but you were if you chose to.  Same thing with Craig’s List. 

        When I moved to Los Angeles, Craig’s List became the ultimate resource for my every want and need.  I found my apartment there and my neurotic roommate; bought all my furniture there; I even joined a hiking group off the site, which ended up being a bunch of 40-year old accountants, but regardless, I needed a friend.  Then, at last, I began the odyssey of searching for employment.  I had to find a job, and not just any job, but paid work.  Somewhat of a novelty in Hollywood, Land O’ Internships.  The nuts and bolts of this city were oiled by a crew of actors/writers/one-of-these-days types, who whored their identities out to anyone willing to throw a quarter in their cups.  And I was about to join these prostitutes in the ring. 

        I wanted to find a position working as a writer or video editor, preferably in a freelance situation, so I began sending my resume out to fifteen or so Craig’s List postings a day, and would hear back maybe from two of them, either by phone or email.  I knew it was going to be hit or miss, and that I should be profusely skeptical about all who contacted me, but after constant miss after miss, desperation won out over skepticism.  The need to eat was greater than the desire to feel good about yourself, so you had to take a few risks.  Or at least, I did.

         One day, I received a call about an assistant editor’s position on a reality television series.  It would be deferred pay, not surprisingly, but it would also be a chance to work on a documentary-style show featuring “multi-platinum recording artists,” according to the guy on the phone.  I thought it was at least worth looking into; if nothing else, maybe I would meet someone famous.  When you first came to L.A., this was imperative because every time you called home, someone would ask you about it like it was a sign you were moving up in the world.  If the only celebrity you’d run into was Bob Sagat, you were the family flop.

        I spoke to a guy named Sean on the phone, and we arranged for a day and time when I would come by his office to interview and take a look at his project.  He’d said very little about it so far, other than the fact that he had hours of footage and was looking for fresh eyes and well-tuned skills to assist him along the way.  He had a substantial amount of work left, but assured me there was network potential waiting in the wings.

       On the morning I was supposed to go, Sean emailed me directions to the studio, which happened to be located in Inglewood.  Granted, Inglewood wasn’t known for its preeminent real estate, but production houses usually were placed wherever there was a considerable amount of open space and room to grow.  So, fine.  He told me I would be meeting with him and his partners, and that I should bring my resume and dress formally.

        ”Just in case one of our clients are in,” he noted.

        I was impressed at his level of professionalism, and wondered what “client” might be around when I arrived.  I envisioned big security gates at the entrance; I would be driving in one side and George Clooney would be exiting the other in a red convertible.  I’d pull past the guards and nearly run over Mick Jagger, crossing the way with a joint in his right hand and a cup of java in his left. 

        “Sorry Mick!”  I’d yell out my window.  “Late for a meeting!”

        He’d be startled no less, but not necessarily mad because he was stoned.  I’d simply wave it off and continue onward to the guest lot.

        My nerves were racing.

        To prepare, I showered, put on a new black skirt, blazer, and fancy leather belt, and traded my usual flats for heels.  I rarely wear makeup, but opted to line and shadow my eyes, even adding a little peach blush to my tan cheeks.  This could be my one shot; my one moment in time, as Whitney Houston said.  I didn’t want to blow it with slapdash attire.  I left my apartment with enough time to arrive 10-15 minutes early; I’d rather wait on them, than have them wait on me. 

        After a nearly 45 minute trek from my apartment in Hollywood to the studio in Inglewood, I approached what I presumed was the place.  Sean had mentioned there would be a green Jaguar parked out front, which was reassuring since important people drove Jaguars.  And he was correct; upon arriving, I noticed the car immediately.  In fact, the Jaguar stuck out like a supermodel at the library.  It was parked in front of a shoddy cement house with two layers of bars over the windows and doors.  There was no parking lot, only meters in the street, and the building was sandwiched between a car wash and a dilapidated lending agency that announced “No Credit Check!” on a scrolling marquee over its door. 

        No sign of Clooney just yet.

        I went to the door and knocked, and a young guy wearing an oversized t-shirt reading “#1 Pimp,” answered.  He opened the front door, but kept the screen door closed between us, just in case.  He wore glasses, tattered jeans, and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed, let alone combed, in weeks.

        “You here for Sean?”  He asked.

        I nodded, and he unlocked the gated screen and led me inside.  Immediately, I stepped into what appeared to be a makeshift recording studio, where a young woman in a pink sundress stood around a microphone wearing oversized earphones, and warming up her voice.  The room was dark; the microphone dangled limply from the ceiling like a deflated erection, and a few cardboard boxes were pressed against the wall. 

        “He’s in here,” #1 Pimp said, pointing his finger down a dim hallway. 

        He brought me into another room, equally dark, where MTV played on a dated television in the corner.  There was a new Mac laptop sitting on a table in the center of the room with many cords coming out of it, and some form of a recording booth cased in glass against another wall.  It contained a small mixer, which was apparently connected to the microphone in the other room.  The only thing missing was a boom box for playback.

        A short, pasty guy at the computer stood up to greet me.  He wore an art smock, unbuttoned to reveal a plethora of chest hair so long that it could’ve been trimmed with scissors.

        “Hi, I’m Sean,” he said, smiling pleasantly.  He must have been just a few years older than me, though his full beard aged him about ten more.  He was skinny, smelled like he’d come out of one of those shops that sold incense and fairy dust, and pointed me to the computer where he’d been working.  Another guy in a wife-beater, who resembled Lawrence Fishburne circa Apocalypse Now, sat on a ratty, brown couch watching television with his kid; the kid was probably around eight and played with a handheld video game.  I looked at them and offered a hello, but was ignored.

        “So this is the project,” Sean explained, sitting down at his desk.

         He began to scroll through a sequence in his editing program, divulging clips featuring various rappers such as T.I., Young Joc, Young Dro, and Kanye West.  The project was apparently a reality-style show looking at the personal lives of hip hop artists.  The clips had been shot in various cities, containing interviews as well as backstage footage, and bits filmed at music video sets.  I must admit, I was impressed with the quality of talent, and curious as to how Sean, #1 Pimp, and Lawrence Fishburne had access to them. 

         “How do you know all these people?”  I asked.

            “Scully over there, he’s an artist; he knows them,” Sean said, pointing to #1 Pimp, evidently Scully, who nodded at me with a faint smile, as if he were Diddy himself. 

            “Oh really,” I said to Scully.  “You know Kanye?”

            “Of course I know Kanye, I know all of them,” he said, “They’re my friends.”

            It was remarkable how many friends everyone had in Hollywood.  You’d meet someone, shake their hand, and the next time their name was mentioned, you were talking about them like you’d been in the sandbox together.  Incidentally, very few of your friends remembered your name, if they even recognized you.  I had a better relationship with my drycleaner.

            So I remained aporetic.

            “I see,” I said, turning back to Sean who sat confidently gazing at his project.  “So, what exactly would you like me to do?”

            “Well, I’m looking for someone to log all the video on the computer for me, and then maybe help with some of the basic sequences,” he said.  “Is this something you’d be interested in?”

            Before I could answer, the chanteuse in the other room began to sing, and Scully quickly moved into the glass box to record her ballad.  She was pitchy and weak, like Ciara but worse.  Sean held his finger to his lips, motioning that I should be quiet.  Meanwhile, Lawrence Fishburne lit up a bowl, and began breathing puffs of thick marijuana smoke into the room.  This must not have been unusual since his kid didn’t even notice, but I actually started running short of breath.  The room was basically a bakeshop with no ventilation.  Due to my congestion, they had to do a few takes of the recording.

            “Sorry,” I said.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Sean replied, though I sensed great frustration in the room from everyone else.  

            When the girl finished her strained melody, Scully came out of the box, sparked some incense, and joined Lawrence on the couch, taking several drags off the pipe then passing it to Sean. 

            “Let me show you a few more things,” Sean said through ganja exhaust; he referred back to his computer and gave the bowl to Scully without even offering me a hit.  I mean, c’mon.

         As Sean scrolled through more scenes on his laptop, Scully went to a mini-fridge and began popping open bottles of Heineken then handing them out to everyone in the group, except the kid.  This time I was offered a bottle as well, however I chose to decline as that would appear unprofessional, for what it was worth. 

        “Thanks though,” I said.  “Another time.”

         I wondered exactly what “clients” Sean had been alluding to earlier for whom my blazer would have been a requisite.  I looked more like a rep for child services at this place.

        Once the demonstration was complete, I told Sean I’d think about it then quickly wrapped the interview; I said my meter was about to expire.

        ”Oh shit,” he said.  “Right on.”

        And that was that.

        Again, I turned to Craig’s List for guidance, ideas, and general amusement.  Only a few weeks later, I had another interview.  This go around, I met with Tom, a journalist, who was looking for a young writer to aid him on both film and print-related projects, which he currently had in the works.  He’d written for several major publications as well as for KTLA, a local news station, and also for syndicated programs like Dateline.  I felt like this might be my great find.  The one everyone would ask me about and I’d brush off ever-so casually, “Oh, you know, just saw it on Craig’s List.” 

        My Gucci handbag.

        Tom and I planned to meet for lunch one day at a sushi restaurant near my apartment.  He told me to ask for table 46, or to just say I was with him and they’d know what that meant.  A man with pull, I thought to myself.  Hot.  He also asked me to save him the seat facing the restaurant, which I took as a hint he’d be calling the shots with the waiters.  In L.A., this was a sign of stature and respect, especially at a sushi restaurant.

        When I arrived to the place, Tom was already there and the dining hall was almost completely empty.  It wasn’t fine Japanese cuisine either; rather, it was a Korean restaurant that also served Japanese and Thai foods, all on one giant buffet.  It was like eating at an Italian restaurant that offered crepes and pâella.  The room was decorated with cheesy Japanese lanterns and had the feel of an oriental diner from the ‘70s.  Tom was obese, taking up practically all his side of the booth, and wore glasses so thick I felt like I was looking into magnifying glasses the entire meal.

         “Welcome,” he said to me, struggling to lift himself up to shake my hand.  He patted the glistening sweat along his hairline with a hankie, and, as he lifted his arm, I noticed additional perspiration patches beneath the pits of his XXXL polo.

        We placed our order, and instantly he began to quiz me on my back story, asking me about all the details of my life.  It was his personal interview technique, he explained, which set him apart from other journalists, and it was something I could learn from.

        “Tell me about yourself, five minutes before you made the decision to come to Los Angeles,” he said.

        ”Okay,” I replied.  “Do you mean when I made my official—”

        “Five minutes before,” he said, sipping on a large glass of Dr. Pepper.

        “But the thing is, I’ve wanted to come to L.A. my entire life.”

        He signed, turning his head down to the chipped parquet floor.  “Courtney, I want to know who you were five minutes before you decided to move to Los Angeles,” he repeated.  “That’s all.”

        What I was trying to explain to him was that I’d made the decision to come out here when I was five years old.  It evidently wasn’t the correct answer.

        I continued.  “Well, first, I received a call—”

        “A call from who?”  Tom interjected.

        “From a company who—”

        “What company?  Be specific.”

          If Tom had actually worked for Dateline, then he must have been a gopher.  Barbara Walters never acted like such a jackass, not even when she went to The View.

        “I’m about to get to that,” I said, briefly catching a glimpse of my frustrated face in the wall to the left of me, which was covered in mirrors.

        He smiled, and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair.  “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to make sure I understand the entire situation.”

        Truly a feat, as I had yet to complete a sentence.  We moved forward with the discussion, delving into who I was five minutes before I graduated college, five minutes before I graduated high school, and five minutes before I was potty trained.  He explained that he wanted to see how I “viewed” life, what details stuck out that would tell him whether or not we’d be a good match. 

        “Interviewing is all about what you can pick up upon a person by their behavior, what they say, what they’re not saying,” Tom explained.  “For example, I suffer from post-traumatic stress.  I have to know what’s going on around me at all times or I can’t handle it.  You’ll see sometimes, I just get really nervous, really antsy, that’s why I have to sit in this corner so I can see what’s going on in the restaurant at all times.”

        Oh, okay.  So not a heavyweight after all, just heavy and paranoid.  Tom thought he was being stalked by people who were going to stab him with chopsticks from the buffet spread the second he turned his back.  I began to notice that his eyes constantly narrowed in on different places around the room, like he was inspecting people for unusual behavior.  It was really just the waiters he had to watch out for however, and they would have poisoned his food anyhow.  But no worries there; he ate without hesitation.

        “What’s your schedule like,” he asked, though at this point I knew there was not a chance in hell this was going to happen.  “I work mostly from home.”

        “Well, at the moment, I’m pretty open to whatever,” I said.

        “Excellent.  I’m trying to find ways to get out of the house,” Tom said.  “My wife’s a little nuts.”

        As anyone would have to be to marry him.  Two hundred dollars said Tom’s wife was saying the same thing about him to her lunch date.  

        “I don’t know what’s happened to her,” he went on.  “She gets mad when I’m not productive, she’s always on my case…”  He shook his head disdainfully, then started scratching his hair like a dog with a tick.  “I try to explain about my projects and she just gets more mad and walks out…”

        “That sucks,” I said; it appeared the interview had shifted to a counseling session.

        ”Yeah…”  He drifted off.

        There was an awkward silence as he dug a fork into his chicken teriyaki bowl, which he’d ordered “burnt, with absolutely no vegetables,” the only component with any sort of nutritional value whatsoever.  What Jane Fonda was for fitness, Tom was for heart attacks.  He chewed for a minute then turned his eyes to a table of men in business suits and ties behind us.

        “So much goes on here, you know,” he said

        ”Here, like L.A.?”  I asked.

        ”No here, like Amagi,” he clarified.  “Like I wonder what those men are talking about over there?”

        I turned back to the guys—the only other people at the restaurant—who were all middle-aged, balding and washing eggrolls down with beer.  My guess was stocks.

        “You just can never tell what’s the real story,” he added, wiping his soy-glazed lips with a napkin.  “That’s the gift I have.”

       If only we all were so fortunate.

        He finished up his meal and paid the bill.  I would have offered, but really, I should have been charging $50 an hour so he was getting a bargain.  My gift, I deduced, was psycho-analytics.

        L.A. was a disturbing place because you often encountered people like Tom who’d been trying and trying and trying, yet still had accomplished nothing.  Few paths in the City of Angels were a guaranteed success, so it was not uncommon to find such souls, long past their youth, who still didn’t get it.  A dream rarely died, after all; only the ones who were able to see the reality in it had a chance. 

        As I watched Tom snag all the dinner mints from the bill sleeve for himself, I wondered if this was going to be me one day.  Overweight, eating at cheap, faux-Asian restaurants, and venting to some young college grad I’d met off the internet about how my husband actually wanted me to do something with my life.  Indeed, all else had failed.  Tom was the face of defeat, of long, lost hope, of one too many burnt chicken teriyaki bowls.   And then there was Sean too—my friend—the face of impending failure, skewed sensibility, and one too many bowls.  His fate was likely the same. 

        Back to the drawing board….

A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

            I had big dreams as a kid.  I knew I was destined to do something momentous, and also had a fairly wild imagination.  It was in third grade that I resolved I was going to be a movie star.  I was participating in a local theater in North Carolina at the time, and someone who’d watched me perform suggested I get an agent and start doing commercials.  Instantly, my life had direction.  An agent would be the key to getting me from the stage to the screen.  I decided I had to pack my bags immediately, and head west to launch my career in Hollywood. 

            So, I told my mom.

            “Ok,” she muttered with a smirk.

            “I’m not kidding,” I said, “I have to get an agent, and I need to go to California.”

            “No,” she replied, barely even pausing with the dishes to address my dire needs.

            “What!? Why not?” I was shocked by her lack of support.  I’d heard about all these other young starlets whose parents had given up their jobs, their homes, everything they had to take their kids out to Hollywood and pursue their dreams.

            “That’s silly,” she said.

            “But there’s no way I can make it if we stay here!” I argued.

            “Tough,” she said.  “You’ll just have to wait.  I’m not taking you to California.”

            I felt like she’d ripped my dream from my hands, threw it on the ground, and smashed it with her foot like an aluminum can.  When I was famous, I thought, she would regret those remarks.  I wouldn’t be thanking her in my Oscar acceptance speech, that was for certain.  If anything, I might use the platform as an opportunity to ridicule her to the world.  “You know, my mom was never very supportive of my career,” I would say, “but this just proves you can defy the low expectations placed on you as a child.  There will always be people standing in the way of your dreams, trying to bring you down, but you can’t listen to them.  You have to be strong!” 

            Something like that.

            I saved up my allowance money over a couple months, and bought the Hollywood Creative Directory, which was a listing of every agent and casting director in the country.  I began writing letters explaining the situation to various representatives.  My mother and father would obviously be no help in the matter, but I thought possibly my grandma, with some careful coaxing, might support my aspirations.

            “Dear Ms. Sanders,” I wrote, “If you can get me an audition, I will fly out to California.  I can’t come there right now because my parents won’t let me (I’ve asked).  But my grandmother will pay for me if you can get me an appointment.”

            No one wrote back, of course. 

            Years later, in middle school, during the rise of such teen sensations as Britney Spears and Hanson, my friend Kimberly and I decided we, too, would form a pop duo; we called ourselves “Enchanted.”  Kimberly wasn’t much of a singer, but could play the piano.  I took lead vocals, and she did background vocals and played on one of those mini-Casio keyboards everyone had as kids.  We recorded Whitney Houston songs on a karaoke machine to use as our “demo,” and mailed it to Sony Music Entertainment because that was the record label listed on Whitney’s album.  My real incentive to form this group was to capitalize on my eventual fame as a musician, and segway into film and television.  I’d noticed a lot of other famous actresses, including Whitney, had done it that way, so perhaps it was my route as well.  

            “Kimberly, I just want to let you know before we get too far,” I warned, as we dropped our package off in the mail.  “As soon as we make it big, I’m going to leave Enchanted to focus on my acting career; you’ll have to be a solo artist.  I hope you can understand?  Acting just means everything to me.”

            “Sure,” she replied.  Kimberly could give a shit about any of this; I think she just wanted to meet Taylor Hanson since we both had a crush on him.  I, on the other hand, sought fame and fortune and needed a creative way to get there as fast as possible.  We did receive something back in the mail from Sony, but it was merely our original package—crushed and unopened—with RETURN TO SENDER stamped on the front.  Again, there was my dream: lifeless and smushed.

            This was purely a setback though, I told myself.  Actually, this was exactly what I wanted.  Everyone who was famous had to overcome obstacles and rejections, so this was like God telling me I was getting closer.  A step in the right direction.  One day I would talk about this to the press; I’d say how Sony opted to not even bother opening my package, but I’d kept on going.  I didn’t give up because you couldn’t give up or you would forfeit your chances.  Then I’d chuckle. “And hey,” I’d say, “Look at me now!”

            However it went, I knew it was going to happen.  I was going to be famous.  My story may not have paralleled that of others, but this was a positive and promising sign.  Everyone’s tale had to be unique.   If you were destined for stardom, as clearly I was, you knew.  That was what set you apart.  Other people figured it would never happen to them, but us burgeoning icons, we were aware from the early years.  We were confident our name would one day be in lights.

            My mother never bought into my bold ambitions.  When I told her I was going to be an actress, she looked at me the same way she did as when I said I’d only agree to folding laundry if there would be a recoupable effect on my allowance.

            “Are you living in a fog?”  She replied, with her hands on her hips. 

            I assumed this was rhetorical, though periodically felt the need to respond. 

            “Wake up!”  She went on.  “Come join the rest of us.”

            The “rest of us” however were leading horrible lives as nurses and accountants, living in boxed houses in small towns.  Forget it.  Bring me the glitz and the glamour.           

            “I am awake,” I replied.  “Look at my eyes.  Does it look like I’m sleeping?”

            After giving it more thought, nevertheless, it actually made sense.  Even now.  I began to notice that, in my world, imagination provided significantly more insight than cold, hard facts.  When I didn’t know, I dreamed; my margin of error slightly larger than most.  After much thought, I decided I was okay with being permanently stuck in a daze.  There were more possibilities that way.  Life remained brighter, more fantastic.  Your options were limitless.

            Once I lived in Hollywood however—once I worked in Hollywood—my perception of it all became significantly skewed.  The fog I was living in mixed with the smog I was smothered by, and it was a cloudy sight that lay before my eyes.  But the dreamers kept it real.  We knew that our ideas could change the world, and we believed that if only we could bypass this haze of doubt and fear and hopelessness and lack of faith, we would be able to tell our stories.  It would be worth it.  So we tried.  We kept on going, even when they said it wasn’t so.  That was how we got by each day.

Santa Claus Does Exist: An Introduction To Me

          I believed in Santa Claus until the seventh grade.  It was my grandmother who inadvertently destroyed my childhood love, kind of like someone running over your bicycle.  My parents had decided to let me travel by myself for the first time, so I flew down to Florida to spend spring break with her and my grandfather.  She and I were driving around in their white Cadillac De Ville, en route to the Handy Way gas station to pick up, what I considered to be, the best slice of pizza out there.  On the way, we were talking about Christmas and how they were going to come visit us for the holidays and how much fun we would have.

     “You’re still going along with the whole Santa Claus deal for your little brother, aren’t you?”  She asked, as we hit a stoplight.  I felt like all the ice cream in the entire world had just melted.

            “Huh?”  I said. 

            “Ronnie still believes in that stuff, so you need to go along with it just for a little while longer.  Don’t ruin it for him.”

            Ruin what!?

            “Okay I won’t,” I replied.  I could have cried.

            I’d had my doubts of course; I knew there were disputes as to who was the real guy, but I still remained somewhat convinced of his existence.  Every year, my dad would take my little brother and I outside on Christmas Eve to look for Santa in the sky.  Typically, we saw only a giant patch of black nothing, but one year we happened to observe something fly by and it absolutely wasn’t a plane.  A plane moved quickly; it soared high up in the atmosphere.  This object whisked steadily through the air, and, if you listened really closely, it tinkled.

            “That was him!”  My dad exclaimed, as if there were any doubt in my mind.  I presumed the whipping movement was the reindeer legs swishing around, and I also spotted a flickering light at the very front (Rudolph’s nose).  In all likelihood, it was merely a flock of crows crossing by a streetlight, but then again, what would explain the tinkle?  

            Another year, it snowed on Christmas, and we went outside in the morning and there were hoof prints on the roof.  A little trail of them leading right up to the chimney.  At the time, I wasn’t skeptical enough to notice the fact that there probably weren’t enough to account for a whole sleigh of reindeer.  This was more the mark of one magical animal, or one human attempting to make a mock interpretation.  But I didn’t analyze it so critically then.  I just knew it was Santa.  My dad was afraid of heights, so I didn’t believe he would’ve had the courage, and my mom wouldn’t have bothered.

            On top of all this, my dad told me there was an elf named Timmy—the chief guy that determined whether or not you received presents versus coal—who would call our house every year around Christmas time and discuss our behavior with my father. 

            “It’s Timmy!”  My dad would yell out shortly after answering the phone. 

            My little brother and I would sneak beside the door of my parents’ bedroom to try and overhear the conversation.  We were always extremely worried about our status on the good or bad list.  My dad would say things like “Ronnie needs to do a better job of making his bed?  I agree with you on that one, Timmy.”  Or, “Courtney’s been too sassy with her mother?  Yep.  We’ve told her.  We warned her.”

            Busted. 

            If there was no Santa Claus, then whose elf was on the line with all this completely accurate information?

            And of course there was the other proof: the Christmas cookies we left out that were eaten in the morning.  The magic feeling in the air around the holidays.  The gift lists mailed directly to the North Pole.  The post office would have never in a million years been involved in such a scam.  It was a government-run organization.  Things just didn’t add up; there were too many question marks.  Therefore, I could never be 100% sure Santa Claus was a fraud until my grandmother officially whacked the dream down with her imagination ax.

            The revelation of Santa Claus was the first significant moment in my life were something I believed in turned out to be false.  Sure, the spuriousness of the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy had come out earlier, but I wasn’t all that attached to them.  They didn’t give me as many presents, and they didn’t have so many stories about them.  Their validity was always open to discussion.  Not Santa though.  Santa knew me and everything about me.

            When Santa disintegrated, the world lost a little bit of its magic.  I was upset not because I’d been deceived or because there wasn’t an old man in a red suit ruining around the North Pole, rather it was that life became less imaginative, less enchanting.  Reindeer really couldn’t fly.  I never needed a scientific explanation for it, I just wanted them to be up there in the air and to know that I might also accomplish wonderful feats.  In my dreams, I could fly by waving my arms around in the air like I was swimming; once I was as high as I wanted, I would just float.  I tried this method when I was awake, and not surprisingly, it proved ineffective.  But I hoped one day it might.

            On Christmas Eve every year, CNBC and other news stations had these briefs where they tracked Santa Claus and where he was in the world at any given moment.  They’d say things like, “It appears the weather’s clear in the North Pole today, perfect for reindeer-flying,” or, “Looks like he’s just landed in China; he’s running right on time.”  Why did they do this if there was no Santa Claus?  Kids didn’t watch CNBC.  My dad followed it regularly because of the stock market, so he would always call me to watch what they were saying; that was the only reason I knew about it.  Why would a bunch of guys in business suits and glasses waste their time trailing some imaginary man around the world if there was nobody at all?  It would be the biggest hoax of all time. Santa Claus must exist then; he had to.  I still had faith.  Life was much more exuberant when you believed in fairy tales.