To Live and Love In L.A.

by Ben Peller

  I certainly could respect someone who had that kind of musical knowledge, but it didn’t necessarily qualify them to administrate a series of educational programs. The programs themselves were admirable; a group of charter schools across the country were following a concept of “Learning via Art.” They would alphabetize chemical formulas using titles of books as guides. One class built a statue made entirely of smiles from paintings, and then wrote stories regarding how each smile may have been inspired. My favorite was the school who composed a play made entirely out of famous lines from movies. The climax had featured the protagonists rebutting “Love is never having to say you’re sorry” with “Oh yeah? Then say hello to my little friend.”

  Where had these schools been when I was growing up?

  They were here now, and shockingly I found myself talking to the principals of these schools and really getting into my work. It was kinky to be a cog in a machine, a machine that was helping educate kids in a unique way. But there were other cogs, and sometimes, as in most machines, malfunctions and breakdowns occurred.

  Norma was from New Jersey, and it showed. She could often be found wandering around the office murmuring to herself about how unfair families could be, and how people could be sure to let you down. Also she had a habit of telling you something, then forgetting she’d told you, and thus ended up reminding you about a mundane task four or five times throughout the working day. In addition she would also assume she’d told you to perform another task she’d never brought up, and therefore you were “gumming up the works.” A week into the job I saw her weeping quietly in her office. Norma may have been a little eccentric, but she seemed like a good person and I didn’t like to see her crying. Additionally, her office door was wide open. Other people could see her sobbing. Why didn’t they try to cheer her up? I cast a glance at Laura, who had the unenviable task of being Norma’s personal assistant. Laura shook her head gravely, but I paid no heed. This woman seemed to be in pain. So I took a few hesitant steps into Norma’s office.

  “Norma…” I said hesitantly. “Is there anything-”

  She whipped her head up like a fish who’d just been snared on the end of a line. “No!” she gasped. “Just go. Go and leave me alone in the dark.”

  Southern California sunshine was streaming in through her office window. I backed away slowly, just like I’d been taught to do in a junior college Psychology class. You never wanted to startle a patient, or turn your back on one.

  Once out the door I hurried away, past Laura, who just looked at me and smiled. “Welcome to the Academy’s Foundation,” she said.

  Working for the Foundation had its advantages. Since nobody really knew what they were supposed to be doing, other than arranging for fundraisers and talent shows for kids during the few weeks before the annual Hammys Award Show, the rest of the year was basically spent treading water. My temp assignment was supposed to last only two weeks, but by that time I’d recognized a good gig when I found one. In between working on my novel during office hours, I managed to squirrel away enough vital emails under various random folders, as well as organize the filing cabinets in a coded alphabetical sequence only I could decipher. “For security,” I informed Norma, who nodded heartily. After two weeks I’d managed to make myself suitably indispensable to where they had no choice but to keep me on. To top it off, I even had some dirt on a new arrival to our “Academy Family.” Namely, our Human Relations Coordinator.

  Human Relations Coordinator. What a patently nonsensical term, being that their job has nothing to do with relating to any living creature, human or otherwise. Their main tasks involve firing, questioning, and keeping employees in line at all costs. They’re the equivalent of an Internal Affairs officer in a Police Department. They’re certainly not on the front line; they’re just there to catch workers at their weakest moments and punish them as such.

  Diana was her name. Her newly appointed post was announced via an office email from the General Director of the Academy. According to this email, Diana had a graduate degree in Psychology. This right there should’ve been a red flag.

  Very attractive, cheeks always blushed just the right shade, Diana had a way of flicking her blonde hair and running her sparkling eyes over whatever hallway she happened to be strutting down as if she’d just stepped out of a Barbie Doll House and was damn proud of it.

  The morning after her hiring she came into the Foundation as a part of what she’d termed her “Initiation tour.” Immediately her shiny violet lips crinkled in disapproval. She cast a disapproving glare at Laura and inquired if she really needed to wear a skirt that was so high.

  I looked at Laura’s outfit. The ends of her skirt extended just above her knees. Certainly not XXX rated territory.

  “I… I don’t know,” Laura stuttered, as confused as I was. “Why?”

  “I don’t think that’s the kind of image we need to put out, do you?” Diana questioned.

  Laura looked around, but Norma, who’d been busy muttering to herself while pacing the inside of her office, abruptly shut her door. The other two Directors or Supervisors or whatever the hell their Titles were shut their doors as well. The receptionist in the office suddenly became immersed in an important task of shuffling papers with one hand while frantically tapping on her keyboard with another. Having already been busy in my office writing five pages of my novel that morning, I’d been busy heading outside for a quick smoke break. But now, remembering how welcome Laura had made me feel on my first day, I saw fit to come to her defense. I didn’t care if this Barbie doll was the Human Relations Coordinator or not, she couldn’t talk to Laura like that.

  “What’s the big deal?” I demanded. “It’s a skirt, not a freakin’ negligee.”

  The head of our Human Relation’s Department snapped toward me as if I’d just pulled a string.

  “And what are you wearing?” Diana squinted.

  She seemed to be eyeing my crotch, and for good reason. This was “Casual Friday,” and I’d seen fit to wear my 1980s blue jeans, complete with strategic rips and tears in all the right places, including my upper right thigh.

  As my penis dangled dangerously near to an opening, I tried to smile and turned quickly, thrusting my left hip at her. “The new fall fashion,” I said. “Bon Jovi chic.”

  “Right,” she drawled. “Maybe we should speak in private.”

  I glanced around, but the only one in sight was Laura, who shrugged and mouthed a Thank you before beating it over to her cubicle.

  Diana placed her hand on my elbow. “Where’s your cubicle?” she asked quietly.

  “My office is the last one on the right,” I replied. “Down here.”

  “You have an office?” she asked, with more surprise than I thought was called for.

  I shrugged. “It came with my college degree in Classic Literature.” This was a blatantly lying jump from Radio Television and Film, but I felt that under the circumstances a little cultural elevation wouldn’t hurt.

  Diana managed a laugh. “Okay, Mister Dickens, lead the way.”

  I did, and when we got into my office she shut the door with wicked speed. “What the hell are you doing wearing those pants?” she rasped.

  I just shrugged. I was ashamed at the truth. I owned only one pair of dark slacks and I’d worn them for two straight weeks, being that I rarely did laundry. Even my limited olfactory skills were now able to determine that they stank enough to have no place in an office environment. My two pairs of jeans had been covered with vomit and blood for at least a month now, and my pair of leather pants had been stolen some time ago by a woman who, ironically, would go on to win a Hammy award a couple years down the road for Best Female Rock Artist.

  “Do you know what kind of a lawsuit your little outfit might open this company up to?” Diana burst out, then moved toward me. “With your cock ready to burst right out like that.”

  Diana’s tenor had shifted toward the suggestive side, and this amped up my heart rate considerably. Then
her hand was on my thigh and her eyes, crystallized green, were gazing into mine. “You really should be taught a lesson,” she said.

  Little did she know I’d already learned my lesson about office romances with Jinny. Don’t shit where you eat. I certainly didn’t want to blow this gig. What if I had sex with this woman and didn’t last long enough, or even worse, what if I lasted just long enough? Office rumors, stolen glances over the coffee urn in the kitchen, and then the graduation to marriage, kids, and all kinds of things I had no current interest in. All these things seemed too high a price to pay for a quickie in my office. So I decided to take the high road and told her as politely as possible, even as her hand massaged my inner thigh, that I really thought this wasn’t a good idea.

  Her touch on my thigh shifted to become as tight as a snake’s bite for half a second before releasing me. “I don’t think it is, either, you creepy queer!” Diana stood righteously. “If I ever see you wear those pants again, you’re going to be fired!”

  “Fine!” I snarled back, proud of standing my ground. “Guess you’ll just have to fantasize.”

  With that I pulled a The West Wing maneuver and opened the door then tramped righteously out of my own office after exchanging heated words with a fellow employee.7

  Aside from that potential landmine, my life as the Academy’s Foundation’s Consultant moved along nicely. While the Academy’s Director was railing on against file-sharing websites, I spent many pleasant hours in the Foundation downloading hundreds of songs from a website whose logo was a big cat, burning these acquired songs onto CDs, and placing long-distance phone calls to my newly acquired literary agent in New York. I also oversaw the implementation of our “Learning via Art” program in four new charter schools.

  Life was good.

  It got even better, albeit decidedly weirder, the night I went to the Furthur festival at the Universal Amphitheater. There I obtained some liquid acid from a guy who claimed to have lived next to Ken Kesey. As he poured a few drops onto my palm, I had second thoughts. After all I did have to be at work the next day. The Foundation’s Department Leader, Jene, had promised a “big surprise” and told us to all come in to work with our faculties tuned – his words – to the max.

  Clouds, love, life its ownself… all had been enhanced in the past for me while tripping on acid. Granted, this had been a few years back in college when I could afford to stay in and miss my Advanced Screenwriting class while coming down from a night on acid as the pro wrestlers adorning the posters on my walls gradually stopped cutting audible promos at me.8 For days after an acid trip my senses had always seemed more attuned. Sometimes I saw and heard things that may or may not have even been real. So, given my Department Leader’s orders to be “tuned to the max” the following day, it wasn’t just a desire to trip that had me licking the acid from my hand, but a sense of duty.

  The concert went by in a wonderfully psychotic blur, and I was still tripping my brains out when I came into the office the next morning. Funny how I’d never really noticed the way the walls that led down the hallway seemed to melt and then restructure themselves. I almost laughed out loud as the pictures of various Award winners posing with their trophies mouthed secrets through determined smiles to me such as “save us” and “this award doesn’t mean shit” as I passed them. When I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the dark paned glass of the door that led to the Foundation I jumped back in awe. My hair was a mass of snakes and there was a giant X connecting my eyes to my lips.

  Just the acid, I reminded myself. Just that crazy acid.

  With grim determination to be a productive member of the eight-to-five world I entered the Foundation. Laura rushed up to me frantically. “Hurry, Shawn!” she urged. “We’re waiting for you!”

  Her frenetic energy seized my maxed out mental state and caused me to consider that my next steps would lead me into either heaven or hell. With the liquid acid still flowing through me, this certainly wasn’t the usual Wednesday morning at work. What could be waiting for me? Angels, devils, the almighty….?

  I took a deep breath and hurried in behind Laura. What was waiting for me were my fellow employees, Directors and Supervisors along with my fellow temps; nine people in all. All were sneaking befuddled looks at one another, and I quickly saw why. Here was Jene, his hand on the shoulder of a blonde pigtailed girl who looked as though she should be in second period English class reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

  “Ah, finally!” Jene announced. “Now everyone, let’s listen to Dalilia, a new singing sensation.”

  Dalilia tossed her pigtails from side to side with the steeliness of a boxer tapping their gloves together in anticipation of a bout. Her pink nail-polished hand rose to her breasts, which seemed to be heaving with calculated precision. The only difference between the Catholic School Girl’s skirt she wore and the one worn by Britney Spears in her career-making video was Dalilia’s was about two inches shorter.

  Had she been present, our HR Coordinator would’ve no doubt been throwing a fit.

  But no one present in the room had any authority to do anything other than look confused. Even the object of our confusion, Dalilia, seemed a bit uneasy. Jene was the sole possessor of confidence as he patted her on the shoulder and urged, “Go for it, Dalilia!”

  Immediately she began to sing.

  As Dalilia worked her way through the song, the one that had launched Britney, I couldn’t help but think that here I was, a temp, standing in the office of a Leader of a Department of an Academy that hosted one of the biggest award shows in the music industry, and I was listening to a young woman who looked well below the consensual age for sex sing a song that seemed to advocate that someone perform sadomasochistic acts upon her.

  Was I still totally off my nut on acid, or had reality really taken a hard right turn for real?

  As she reached her climax, she clutched a chair and began to sing to our Director of Musical Education, an African-American man in his fifties who looked plainly terrified as she ground her barely Catholic concealed crotch in the direction of his lap, begging him to hit her just one more time.

  Then she collapsed, spread eagle on the floor. I tried not to look too closely as Jene broke out in applause.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dalilia!” he announced.

  We all began to join nervously in applause as Dalilia writhed on the floor, then sat up and pouted approvingly.

  “So…” Jene said. “What do we think? Is she the next Britney?”

  Silence greeted his question. Then a voice said: “She’s got a great set of pipes.”

  This declaration seemed to ring out of nowhere. But then my acid-clouded brain finally grasped that I’d been the source. “A great set of pipes,” I repeated, fearing as I stared at her red halter top that I might’ve been misunderstood. “I mean her lungs… I mean her… vocal cords…”

  All eyes were on me, and when you’re groping through an acid trip eyes may inspire either really good thoughts or really bad ones. I gazed at my coworkers and tried to remember the advice I’d gotten during my Freshman year of college from my buddy, Derek, who I’d shared my first acid trip with. Don’t let it take you for a ride, he’d intoned sagely. Take it for a ride.

  So I chose to believe these eyes were warm, reassuring ones, and called out, “She’s going to be a fucking star!”

  To my immediate horror I realized I’d just used an expletive in front of a fifteen year old girl with not only my bosses but her mother in attendance. I was ready to amend my statement with something like “expletive deleted” when Jene shouted, “Damn right she is!” He broke into more absurd applause. The mother joined in, smiling at me and nodding rapidly as if I’d just declared that gravity did, in fact, exist. All around me the other members of the Foundation joined the applause. In true diva fashion, Dalilia rose from her reclined position on the floor with a smooth motion which the lingering acid turned into her spirit emerging from her body. She took a bow and blew us all a
kiss. “Thank you,” she spoke as if addressing a throng of thousands instead of a dozen people clustered in an office.

  Maybe she had a chance to make it, after all. Delusions do wonders.

  After another heartily cheery minute or so we all meandered out of our Leader’s office. I jumped on this chance to go to the Men’s room, where I splashed some water on my face and was relieved when I stared in the mirror and found my hair had turned from a nest of pythons into a gathering of harmless garters. The X that had once connected my eyes and lips had receded into a barely visible triangle. Satisfied I would be able to make it through the work day without totally freaking out I said to myself, “You can do it, Shawn!”

  Then came the sound of the washroom door opening and closing. Quickly I coughed and cleared my throat so that it didn’t seem quite so obvious I’d just been giving myself a coming-down-from-LSD pep talk.

  I smiled hugely and turned, ready to greet a fellow Academy Member. Instead I saw Dalilia standing before me. “You really think I’m going to be a fucking star?” she asked in a breathy voice that would’ve made Marilyn Monroe blush.

  No, I told myself firmly. It’s a residual hallucination brought on by decreasing LSD levels in my mind. Stand here long enough and this will go away.

  It did not go away. It reached out and physically grabbed my wrist and pulled me into a bathroom stall.

  “I want you,” she whispered into my ear. “I’m burning up for your love.”

  Amazingly, I managed to identify both these statements from the lyrics of 1980s hits by Shana and Madonna respectively.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say, but I’d never been closed in a bathroom stall with an underage girl before while recovering from a night spent telling the covers of your books how much you love them while they blew kisses back at you. Fuck words. It was hard enough to catch my breath.

  “You were the one in control back in that office, I could tell,” she crooned. “You think I’m going to be a star, you said so yourself!”