by Lynn Messina
“In that case, I better give her a call. My response was to suggest obedience training and Wee-Wee Pads.”
“Please. I bought her a bag of pig’s ears from Costco.”
We laugh and Glenn is forgotten. Hopefully he will always be so easy to dismiss.
On their last night, we go to the Pirellis for a New Year’s Eve party. There are a dozen other things I’d rather do, like poke myself with needles while “Living on a Prayer” plays over and over again with deadening repetition, but I can’t think of a way to extricate myself gracefully without seeming like an ingrate.
Janine envelopes me in a hug as soon as we arrive and gushes about how sweet I am to my parents. “I just know she’s going to be a huge success, and then we can say we knew her when.”
Mom looks surprised at this, as if she’s trying to figure out how a successful career as a paralegal can make you famous. She’s blocked out the screenwriting idea completely. It’s like I moved to L.A. for the weather.
Bob offers us drinks and leads us to the bar, where a young guy in a tuxedo is making piña coladas. “The specialty of the evening,” he announces without any irony. “Our theme is the tropics. Janine bought wonderful coconut shrimp with a poi dipping sauce. Be sure to try some. It’s delicious. Last year we did old Paris and made crepes. We had a small kitchen fire, which is why we ordered in. As Ricki knows, Janine usually takes great pride in her cooking.”
Everyone looks at me. Carrie raises an eyebrow. “She’s an excellent cook.”
Bob smiles approvingly and for a moment I fear he’s going to invite me to move back into the house—he and Janine suffer from a virulent case of empty-nest syndrome—but he just turns to the bar and orders four piña coladas. They come complete with a little umbrella and a plastic monkey hanging off the side of the glass.
“How delightful,” Mom says, taking a sip. Unless she’s at a wedding and feeling particularly festive, she usually sticks with Diet Coke. Dad’s a straight beer guy, Carrie likes mojitos and I lean toward Manhattans with smooth bourbon, but we all gush over the drink like it’s the best thing in the world.
Satisfied, Bob wanders off to mingle with his other guests. Slowly and with no preorganized plan of action, we each take another few sips, then discreetly leave our cup in some dark corner of the living room. We meet up again in the center by the coconut shrimp.
It’s another great bonding moment.
Far from being the endless nag-fest I expected, this trip has been remarkably easy and stress-free. I’ve even had fun on occasion. It’s like everyone sent the best version of themselves to represent them at a West Coast summit. Mom mentioned dad’s luggage only once, while waiting for Space Mountain, and that was admittedly a very long line. She had to say something.
Janine introduces us to everyone in the room so we won’t start the New Year off with a bunch of strangers. It’s a great idea in theory but it makes for a long, boring evening of small talk. My parents love it. I take Carrie to the backyard to drink our sea breezes in silence. We sit on the plastic lounge chairs, which are as chilly as the air. I wrap my arms around my knees.
“What are you doing?” Carrie asks.
I look up. “Huddling for warmth.”
She sighs loudly. It’s too dark to see the expression on her face, but I can imagine it. Her mouth is turned down and her eyes are dark with disgust. “No, what are you doing out here? What’s the point of this?”
Several answers occur to me, but I know they won’t make sense to a Carstone. Taking a gamble on yourself and trying something new aren’t valid reasons. “I’m keeping an eye on my investment,” I say finally. “I’ve already gotten better information about the movie from being here than I did in New York.”
Carrie nods—not to convey approval but to indicate she heard me. “Tell me more about this Vholes character. Who is he? What do we know about him?”
“He’s a successful screenwriter,” I say, trying not to be offended by her suspicion. Although Carrie is only three years older than me, she sometimes sees herself as my third parent. I blame my mom for deputizing her as my baby-sitter at the tender age of eleven. Clearly she was too young for the responsibility.
“If he’s so successful, why does he have to give classes?”
“He has a skill to pass on,” I explain with what I think is considerable patience. “I’m very lucky to be working with him.”
Carrie is unimpressed. “What’s he done?”
“None of his screenplays have been produced,” I admit reluctantly.
I know exactly how she’s going to react, and she doesn’t disappointment. “And you’re lucky to be working with him? I’d say it’s the other way around. If a bunch of unproduced screenplays is an indicator of success in this business, what’s failure?”
Sighing loudly myself, I launch into a brief explanation of the complicated, convoluted and often Byzantine movie industry. I tell her about the super hot writers hired for J&J, who cost half a million dollars and haven’t had a produced film in almost a dozen years. I explain how you can make a very good living in this town without getting anything made.
It sounds bizarre, even to me. Like Carrie, I’m used to gauging material success by a positive outcome. A good writer writes a good screenplay that gets made into a great movie. Anything less seems to imply failure, even a good writer writing a good screenplay that gets made into a bad movie.
But Hollywood is its own counterintuitive little universe. Bad writers churn out awful screenplays that get made into terrible movies that do spectacularly well. The system shouldn’t work and yet it does. Somehow from this trash heap Oscar Winners and Sundance selections emerge as the new classics.
Just like in a relationship, you need the bad to balance the good.
What this means for J&J, I don’t know. I hope it’ll be one of the good ones that surprise critics and moviegoers alike but I fear, given the choice of Moxie—a choice essentially of star power over substance—that it will be just one more forgettable flick you watch on a plane while waiting for the flight attendant to collect the remains of your rubbery chicken and oversalted mashed potatoes.
But these thoughts have nothing to do with Carrie’s question and I force myself to return to my original point, which is I’m lucky to have someone like John showing me the ropes.
Still unconvinced, she shakes her head, like I’m the unknowing dupe of some intricate scam like a pyramid scheme. I resent her condescension and it’s all I can do not to say the same thing about Glenn: What are you doing? What’s the point of this? Does he really make you happy? Are you sure you can’t do better? When did you stop being my sister and become his security blanket?
It’s hard when you find out someone isn’t the person you thought they were because you have to go on loving them anyway.
The bartender leaves at the stroke of midnight and twenty minutes later the guests follow. Carrie and I watch the mass exodus with confusion and relief. Mom offers to help Janine clean up but she’s summarily dismissed. “I have someone coming in tomorrow to do it,” Janine says with a yawn. Twelve-thirty is the latest the Pirellis have been up in three hundred and sixty-four days.
As soon as we get into the car, Dad announces he’s starving, and I pull into the nearest In and Out Burger. I’m not hungry but I order french fries and a chocolate shake to start the year off right. We bring the food back to their Super 8 and cluster around the small table to eat. The overcrowding and greasy fast food reminds Mom of our childhood and she starts to tear up. My move to California is harder on her than I thought.
Feeling generous because they’re leaving tomorrow, I suggest we play cards like we used to when we were kids. I expect to get universally pooh-poohed but Mom’s eyes light up and Dad runs down to reception to buy cards. The gift shop i
s closed at one a.m. on New Year’s Eve but somehow he convinces the night clerk to sell him a deck. He returns to the room triumphant and ready to win. Dad has always had a competitive streak.
We play Oh, Hell until three in the morning, only stopping when Mom nods off in the middle of a hand. Carrie and I go home and open a bottle of Chardonnay. We toast to the new year, her new kitchen, my new career.
In the morning, I drive them to LAX. Against my parents protests that it’s too expensive, I park the car in the airport lot and roll Mom’s luggage to the check-in line, which moves slowly and takes twenty-five minutes. The man at security is nice and lets me accompany them to the gate. On the way there, I stop at the newsstand to buy everyone a cheesy souvenir of Los Angeles—an Oscar statuette for Mom, a palm tree snow globe for Carrie and a La Cienega T-shirt for Dad.
When their flight is called, Mom’s eyes well up again and she gives me a bone-crushing hug as she makes me promise to come home soon. “How’s Presidents Day? That’s not a big travel weekend.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Dad seconds the invitation and sweetens the deal by offering me miles. Carrie snorts in disgust. “I went to London for a year and nobody flew me home free.”
They board the plane a few minutes later and I hang out by the window, watching the cargo crew load the bags. Black suitcase after black suitcase disappears into the luggage compartment. The loudspeaker crackles and the flight attendant announces the last call for flight 178 to New York JFK. A few stragglers line up. As soon as they board, the gate closes and the plane taxis down the runway. It’s almost noon and I have a lot to do, but I stand there at the glass, waiting until the plane takes off. Then, feeling oddly bereft, I turn away and walk to the parking lot.
Somehow, I miss them already.
Days 954 through 962
For the next week, I field interview requests from every major law firm in Los Angeles. The first call is a complete shock.
“Ms. Carstone, this is Sari Gavin from Merttleson, Sleazak and Eriks. We have your résumé here and would love to talk to you about a paralegal position. How’s Monday at two? Please call to confirm.”
I assume it’s a one-off but the next day two more calls come in from equally prestigious firms. Torn between horror and amusement, I ring Carrie at work and swear her to secrecy. Mom would open her own headhunting firm if she knew how effective her cover letters are.
At first I delete the voice mails as soon as they come in but as the week progresses, I start to save them. There’s something exhilarating about being wanted, even by an industry you don’t want, and I replay the messages before I go to sleep each night as a sort of meditation exercise. I close my eyes, breathe deeply and repeat, “This is Humphrey Simmons from Grear Associates calling for Ricki Carstone. We’re very impressed with your résumé and are eager to set up an interview. Please call us immediately.”
It’s an ego trip but I enjoy the ride.
Then the Visa bill arrives with all my Christmas shopping and the expenses from my parents’ visit. I don’t know why I insisted on treating everyone to Disneyland but there it is in black-and-white: four 1-Day Park Hopper tickets: $420, plus dinner at the Cajun restaurant overlooking the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. We didn’t even need the fancy tickets. We barely went into the California Adventure park.
Adding the credit card bill to my other expenses—rent, health insurance, car insurance, gas, groceries—I realize my financial picture is far worse than I imagined. My movie money is almost gone and I can barely account for all of it. The screenwriting classes with John are the single biggest drain but that’s not the corner to cut. Those lessons are my future.
Health insurance is much more expendable. As long as I don’t do anything risky like learn how to ski or bungee-jump, I should be fine.
But even as I decide to cancel my policy, I imagine the drive to the supermarket, a supposedly safe journey that now seems full of hazardous obstacles like dodging pedestrians and distracted drivers.
Instead, I contemplate life without a car. A bus ticket costs $1.50; a gallon of gas is more than four dollars. Even in New York the M5 will run you two dollars to go up Sixth Avenue.
People in L.A. like to talk as if their city doesn’t have a vast network of buses crisscrossing the metropolitan area, but in fact there are hundreds of lines. The transit map is a dense spider web of veins and arteries connecting one end of the city to the other. With a little forethought and planning, you can get anywhere you want. Thousands of people pull it off every day.
The least I can do is give it a try.
My pioneering spirit lasts two days. I manage to get to get to the Beverly Center in forty-eight minutes, taking the 780 to the 14. Free transfers aren’t included, so the trip winds up costing twice as much as I expect but I easily fix that with a three-dollar day pass. The return trip takes a half hour longer, not only because there’s traffic but because there are so many people on board the bus stops every two blocks. This is why I always take the subway at home: Giving everyone a say in where they get off is far too democratic and time consuming.
I also take the bus to the Ralph’s on Hollywood, which is much closer than I realize. My arms laden with three overflowing bags of groceries, I walk home, delighted that Los Feliz feels like a city, not a suburban development. The Happy indeed.
But then I try to get from my apartment to John’s, and the limitations of the L.A. MTA are suddenly made clear. I’m prepared to suffer the indignity of long wait times and traffic and six bus changes, but his East Avenue 42nd address doesn’t come up on the trip planner. It’s like it doesn’t exist at all.
I go to Google maps just to make sure it’s still there. Yep, it pops up with a little red arrow pointing directly at it. I try entering the street name as it shows up on Google, E Avenue 42, but it makes no difference. I call the information line and am told by two different operators that there isn’t an East 42nd Avenue, maybe I mean West 42nd Street. Frustrated, I hang up.
Since car insurance clearly isn’t the corner to cut, I consider a more drastic measure: paying only the minimum on my Visa.
No Carstone in the history of consumer credit has ever paid just the minimum. Even as the idea flashes through my head, I can hear my dad expounding on its evils. “On a $5,000 balance,” he’d say every year as he handed me and Carrie our new cards, “it would take you a staggering twelve years to pay off the debt, at which point you will have paid a mind-boggling $2,915.66 in interest, 58.3 percent of the original charge.” Then we’d each get an Excel spreadsheet with interest-principal breakdowns, which we had to initial and date as proof we read it.
Even knowing this, I find the thought of paying only the minimum very seductive. Credit is a loan, and loans are paid off over time. A credit card isn’t just the convenience of not carrying cash or protection against theft, it’s a cash advance, money you don’t have at the moment but will soon enough.
It’s really not that big a deal.
And it’s better than cutting into my life savings.
Still, I can’t do it.
Two days later, another law firm calls, Harkness, Zoom and Schneider. I’m home but I don’t answer the phone. I just listen to the message over and over. “Hi, Ms. Carstone, we think you’re an excellent candidate and would make a great addition to our team. Call us at 310-555-8634. We look forward to hearing from you.”
I reach for the phone three times in the next twenty-four hours. Finally, I pick it up and start to dial. Life has its own inevitability, its own built-in plot that we either can’t escape or don’t want to. This is mine.
The phone rings once, twice, then another call beeps in. Happy to avoid the unavoidable for a few minutes more, I click to the other person.
“Ricki, this is Lester,” the voice says,
brusque and businesslike and music to my ears. “I just wanted to let you know the script is in. Lloyd loves it.”
I grip the phone tightly. “Really?”
“They’re making a few changes, then submitting it to the studio. I’ll call you when I know more. We should hear something about the option renewal by the end of the month. I’ll be in touch.”
And just like that, my crisis of faith is over.
I hang up, delete the messages from the law firms, pay my full credit card balance and go to sleep.
Day 967
Moxie stumbles into Raptures at three in the morning. With the help of gal-pal Bella Masters, she commandeers a corner table, evicting several confused mechanics, and orders Jaeger shots and grasshoppers. The strip club doesn’t have crème de menthe or crème de cacao or even double cream, so the bartender mixes a pitcher of Long Island ice tea without the Coke. If the girls aren’t too drunk to notice the difference, they don’t say anything.
According to StripperNation.com, Raptures is a cozy little strip club just off the far south end of the Las Vegas strip, the sort of homey, relaxed spot where you’d want your granddaughter to peel off her clothes to catcalls and drooling men. It’s a low-key hangout with a center tipping stage, a bar and a fair-priced VIP lounge ($100, includes three lap dances). The clientele is mostly local—it gets a good after-work crowd—but in-the-know tourists searching for an alternative to the cold impersonality of the mega clubs along the Strip sometimes drop by. Horny bachelors on the prowl for the ultimate Vegas nudie-bar experience should look elsewhere.
Downing her fourth glass of Long Island ice tea, Moxie jumps up, runs to the stage, trips over the legs of a man in a Stetson, regains her balance and climbs onto the stage. Slowly at first but with growing confidence, she starts writhing around the pole, her head thrown back in wild abandon, her hips gyrating provocatively.