by Byron Lane
From Kathi Kannon’s backyard, I call Jackie, my former news boss.
“What do you want?!” Jackie asks. This is how she always answers her phone. She’s likely in the middle of managing live shots, keeping a newscast running, and has little time for me and details of my life.
I can hear my father screaming at me: DON’T QUIT ONE JOB UNTIL YOU HAVE ANOTHER! And in this rare case, I took his advice. When I got the job with Kathi, I put in for my two weeks’ vacation at the TV station. Jackie balked at me taking all that time in one swoop, but she gets it, she relates to needing a break. She knows it’ll be a nightmare to fill my shift whether it’s one hour or ten days. I wanted to stay in her employ, to keep a two-week buffer in case the Kathi Kannon thing didn’t work out, in case something went sideways. But now it’s clear to me that I’ve got this, that I’ve got Kathi, that we have each other. I no longer need the deadweight of TV news. I can finally quit.
Holding the phone to my ear, I hear Jackie breathing and the bustle behind her, I hear her typing on her keyboard—never a moment’s rest in a newsroom. I feel no sense of loss, no sense of missing out. I’m at a mansion, looking out at palm trees and dick sculptures. In my other ear, the free one, the one not assaulted by the phone and noise of the newsroom, I hear Kathi’s world—birds, the garbage water fountain, the calm of the wealthy of Beverly Hills.
“I’m not coming back, Jackie,” I say.
“Why not?”
“I’m starting a new life,” I say, a swell of pride filling my chest, my eyes almost watering with tearful relief, finally being free, finally feeling ownership of my life. “I have a new job. I’m a personal assistant to Hollywood royalty. It’s great and it’s a fresh start for me and—”
“Yeah, right,” she says. “In Los Angeles? Nothing stays fresh. See you back in a few weeks.”
“No, no,” I argue. “I’m done. I quit. I’m through working in the middle of the night, through working those depressing graveyard hours! I’m better than that! And I’ll prove it!”
Silence on the line. I finally rendered her speechless! I look down at my phone. She hung up. But joke’s on her. I won’t be back.
Hey, Siri, quitting that job feels just as good as I’d always hoped.
My Kathi Kannon workday starts at ten-thirty A.M. and ends around six P.M. It’s strange driving back to my apartment after my shift, during a time when I was previously in bed, weary and miserable from a life consisting of sleeping away prime hours of my youth. My keys jingle a bit more merrily—Mom’s locket adding to the medley—as I drive past restaurants and cafés filled with people hanging out, having dinner and drinks with their friends. I pass by a mall bustling with people shopping and gawking. How much life did I waste working that overnight shift? Why did I stay so long? WE ALL HAVE TO DO THINGS IN LIFE WE DON’T WANT TO DO! Good old Dad, always in my mind with a cliché I don’t want to hear.
Tap, tap, tap. Fizz, fizz. Crackle.
Friday, it’s noon and Kathi Kannon’s estate is quiet. Benny is outside pretending to water plants. Agnes is in the kitchen, sitting in her dining nook, staring out of the window, daydreaming of I-don’t-know-what, maybe thinking, like I do sometimes, what would I do if this were my home? If I had these resources? If this were my life? What if I won the lottery? Would I live in a place like this? Yep. I’d take time to myself, sure. I’d travel and buy nice clothes, a new car (apologies to my trusty Nissan). I’d put some money away for loved ones. I’d try to invest in arts and theater. I’d have microdermabrasion on my acne scars, try to lose chunks off my love handles, get a trainer to beef up my biceps and thighs so eventually someone will love me. Sitting in that house, sure, I’d love this life to be mine, and isn’t it now, a little?
Kathi is still in her bedroom, resting, from what I’m not sure. Maybe she has full nights, late mornings, secret parties she attends or hosts under moonlight. But there are no signs of a party here today, this morning, last night. No trash. Only sober sunlight and—tap, tap, tap—50 mg of this, 100 mg of that, 20 mg of these. The colors are beautiful: pale blues and peaches and reds. Do they purposefully design pills to look artful, inviting, delicious, bipolar beautiful?
After filling the pill containers, I pull out my laptop to kill time. I’m checking Facebook. I’m checking email. I’m checking OkCupid—just looking; I know no one wants me, not yet, anyway. I’ve only just begun my conversion to a cooler person, after all.
Another hour.
Another hour.
Another hour.
Am I allowed a lunch break? A break from what? I’ve hardly done anything.
Is this the primary job: waiting around while Kathi Kannon sleeps?
But then she emerges, and I jump to attention. She’s dressed, electronic cigarette dangling from her mouth. She’s texting and doesn’t even look up at me. “I’m going out, Cockring.”
“Somewhere fun?” I ask.
“Vegas.”
“You’re driving to Vegas right now?”
“Not Vegas Vegas, just Vegas. I’ll be back soon … ish.”
“Is Vegas a restaurant?”
“It’s nothing and everything,” she says.
“Okay, have fun, I guess. Bye!” I shout as she exits the front door, leaving it wide open behind her. I close the door. I look around. This time of day, in my prior life, I’d be winding down, preparing for rest for the night shift. But this is the new me, trying to live a new life, seeing an unreal amount of sunshine and a change to my face—I’m looking rested, approaching happy.
Another hour.
What if she’s gone the rest of the day? The week? The month? I’m now starving and feeling primal cravings for food. Is this the best job ever? Is this the worst job ever? Do I get a lunch break?
I wander into the kitchen. Agnes is asleep.
I wander to Kathi’s empty bedroom. I make her bed. If Dad could see me now.
I think of the other me, the one who would stress and worry and simply not eat because—what if something happens?! But … Hey, Siri, this is the new me.
Fuck it.
I go to my Nissan.
I drive down Beverly Canyon to the shops of Beverly Hills.
I park at a rusty meter on a sleepy, shady street outside of Mickey Fine, the pharmacy where Michael Jackson got the medications that killed him. It’s where Kathi has her meds filled and is one of the oldest institutions in Beverly Hills; it still has a greasy diner in the back.
I sit at the counter and order a cheeseburger and fries. I’m relishing the moment, teasing my vanity on a lovely afternoon, looking around and wondering what these other people at the diner would think if they knew they were one degree away from Kathi Kannon, that I am the degree, the key, the connection.
The waiter—a rugged man in a paper diner hat—fills my water glass as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pluck it out and even the caller ID can’t dampen my mood, even a conversation with Dad can’t shake my good vibes, and I accept.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, hoping he can hear the smile on my face. “How’s the kidney?”
“Can you believe I’m not peeing blood?”
I nearly spit out a sip of water. “What?”
“They do all that poking around in there and still my pee is normal. I mean, it’s great, it’s just weird. Fucking doctors. If healthcare is so easy, why is it so expensive?!”
“Yeah, what’s up, Dad?”
“I’m cleaning,” he says.
“Good for you.”
“Want any of this stuff?”
And he succeeds—my smile fades. “What stuff? Mom’s stuff? Why? What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“I have too much junk in here,” he says. “I need space.”
“Space? For what? You have a whole house with no one in it!”
“Maybe I’m sick of it! Maybe I won’t be living here forever!”
“Can’t you start cleaning other parts of the house that don’t involve me? Or Mom’s stuff? Why throw it out? What�
�s the rush—” I start, but then feel my phone vibrate. I look at the screen. A text from Kathi.
KATHI: Cockring do I need new socks?
“Dad, I think I have to go. Please don’t get rid of anything.”
“Why would you want any of this junk?” he asks.
“Dad—”
My phone buzzes again and I steal a glance.
KATHI: Can e-cigarettes cause a heart attack?
“Dad—”
And again.
KATHI: Is ecstasy safe? I’m bored.
“Yeah, Dad, I definitely have to go!”
KATHI: When was my last physical?
“Do you want any of this shit or can I put it on the burn pile?!” he yells.
KATHI: Why do I take the pink pill the shape of a testicle?
“Burn pile? I don’t know, Dad. I can’t right now. I have to go!” I hang up and stand. Kathi’s texts continue rapid-fire and wholly out of the blue, like her mind is racing a mile a minute, like she’s been buffering her questions for me and is now sending them all at once.
KATHI: Am I friends with Gene Hackman?
KATHI: What’s a chode?
KATHI: Do I like cilantro?
They’re little interruptions and big reminders I don’t quite know her. I don’t quite have all the answers. I’m unable to get her exactly what she needs. Shit!
KATHI: Where is that picture of me with Jean Smart at Greenblatt’s in 2001? Ish. Maybe 2005?
ME: Will try to get answers!
KATHI: I’m home. Where the fuckity r u?
I throw down some cash for uneaten food and jet, no waving to the waiter, no apologies, no time.
ME: Be right there.
KATHI: I have something for you. Where! R! u?!
ME: Lunching.
KATHI: I am a ball of panic that you abandoned me sobbing a fickle flea.
ME: What? Be right there.
KATHI: I need answers cock.
ME: Sorry on my way.
KATHI: We have to talk.
ME: Uh oh. Am I in trouble?
No response.
I dash from the restaurant, jab my key in the ignition, twisting to start the engine, the other keys and Mom’s locket spinning with me in a panic.
My phone buzzes again, and I nearly sideswipe a Beverly Hills traffic enforcement Prius as I realize it’s not Kathi calling but my dad again. I send the call to voicemail.
I’m thinking, Fuuuuuck.
Traffic.
Gate.
COCK.
Park.
Rush up the hill.
Moose.
Fireplace.
Bedroom.
“Hiiiii,” I sing as I enter. Kathi doesn’t look up at me. The room is full of shopping bags and takeout food containers. This must be Vegas: shopping and eating and spending Nova Quest residuals. The room is also full of tension.
“Cockring, you didn’t respond to my little texts,” she says.
“All those questions? Those were real questions?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
I search for answers like a clown in a courtroom, but none come.
Kathi continues, “I was with a friend and I had medical questions about that pill and stuff. And also, she had some socks she wanted to give me, but I don’t know my sock situation.”
“I think it’s funny you don’t know what medications you’re on,” I say.
“That’s why I have an assistant. Don’t you think?”
I nod yes.
“I mean, you’ve been here, what, two weeks? What do you do all day?” she asks.
Embarrassment washes over me. I honestly have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, waiting every day for detailed instructions that never come. Do I tell her that?
Kathi is staring at me, waiting for answers, and my phone buzzes again in my pocket and I slap it through my jeans, clicking the side button to restore the status quo—tension.
“Do you need to get that?” Kathi asks.
“No, no. Sorry.”
I’m thinking, Dad!
I’m thinking, Rage!
I’m thinking, Someone kill me!
“So, what do you do all day?” Kathi asks again.
“Waiting—” I start.
“Waiting for what? For me?” Kathi asks, smiling kindly. “I’m not a leader. I’m a follower. It might look like I’m a leader because I’m in movies, but I’m just a follower who’s in movies and I happen to have other followers following me but we’re just all confused followers following followers following followers and it’s a clusterfuck of following. There’s a line of people following me and thinking I’m leading them and I’m just, like, trying to find somewhere to take a nap.”
“Oh,” I offer with hesitation, uncertain if follow-up questions are helpful or if they just contribute to the follower culture she’s telling me she wants to cull.
Kathi pulls back the covers beside her and reveals a new gray cardigan with shiny brown buttons—like they’ve been carved from polished wood. It’s folded neatly, like it just came out of a tissue-lined box. “I got you this gift. Feel it. Feeling is critical.”
“You got me a gift?” I take the cardigan in my two hands. It’s soft. It’s cashmere. It’s like squeezing a fistful of feathers. “Why?”
“I need you to step it up,” she says.
“Step it—”
“Up. I need you to take this job more seriously.”
“I thought it wasn’t a job, it was a lifestyle,” I say, an attempt at humor, unmitigated.
“Okay, I need you to take this lifestyle more seriously,” she says, swallowing my joke and taking the life out of it. “I’m a little crazy and there’s not a lot of space in my head for things and it would be helpful if you picked up more slack.”
“I’m not doing a good job?” I ask, reality feeling less like a punch to my gut and more like disembowelment.
“No.”
“Acting?” I ask playfully, tepidly.
“No.”
“Oh. Okay, yeah. I’m sorry. What should I be doing?”
“I don’t know. I told you I don’t like this kind of employee thing. I’m not a manager. I’m busy maintaining my image as a quirky person.”
“But I can’t help you if I don’t know how.”
“If you don’t know how to help me, Cockring, that’s no help to me,” she says, peering at me from over her glasses, making sure her point lands, looking at me as if she’s delivering this line in a Quentin Tarantino movie before the bloodshed begins.
I’m thinking, I’m in over my head.
I’m thinking, I can’t do this.
I’m thinking, I can’t go back to my old life.
“Got it,” I lie. “Sorry. I’ll dig deeper, and I’m looking forward to the chance to really show you how I can be there for you. I want to be an A-plus assistant for you.”
“Great,” she says.
“What grade would you give me right now if you had to?”
“I guess an F,” she says.
“An F!” I shout in horror.
“A D? I don’t know.”
“I’ll do so much better.”
“One more thing,” she says, pausing, choosing her words carefully. I’m nervous, I’m vulnerable, I’m dreading what might come next.
She says, “I’m going to need you to stop cutting your hair.”
Blank stare. “What?” I say, eyebrows raised, my hand reflexively going to my head, pressing at the curl perpetually unruly above my ear.
Kathi looks up at me, pulls the e-cigarette from her mouth, and says, “I’m going to need you to stop cutting your hair. I think this current way you’re cutting it isn’t doing you any favors.”
Cue blushing, cue confusion, cue challenge. Cue … comfort? I’ve always hated my hair. Always. Never is there a day where I look in the mirror and think I’m nailing it. I blame my shit Louisiana genes. I’ve asked people all my life what to do with it: No one is ever honest. No one ever has
ideas. Every barber butchers it, makes it worse. And here, finally, someone has an opinion on it. Someone, finally, sees me, or at least sees my potential.
“You don’t necessarily look bad with the haircut you have now,” Kathi says, “but I have a plan for you and I need you to trust me and maybe occasionally hold me, and this is now part of your job, if you still want it.”
Her plan is to remake me in her image and likeness. In her style, her look, her crazy.
“Deal,” I say.
Maybe this is more of just what I need.
Kathi wiggles in the bed, weaving her legs deeper into the covers, takes off her glasses, lies down, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Last night I dreamed I was feeding an eagle and I was a little bit afraid of it, but I kept feeding it anyway. It had very short feathers and was buzzard-like and sassy and reminded me of you in some strange but also beautiful way. It felt real. Was it real?”
My mind is racing, my adrenaline is pumping, or excreting, or whatever it does when I’m teetering on the edge of something important, something that feels important.
“It was absolutely real,” I say to her.
She smiles, takes a deep breath, some comfort washing over her. “Enjoy the sweater.”
“This seems like more of a bribe.”
“Enjoy the bribe,” she says, rolling over and back into her amazing mind. “And remember, if you cut your hair you’re fired.”
Fired. Her reminder that this job is not just a job. Now I have duties and subtext. To show her I’m not a shitbird. That I want this job, this change, this lifestyle. That I don’t want to go back to TV news, to nights, to nothing. That I’m at risk of losing this, this weird magical position in this weird magical place, of having to go crawling back to the TV-news world, to see Jackie’s smug face, to beg her to put me back on the schedule, put me back in the dark, in the night. If I can even go on living at all.