Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  I guess this is what a Tuesday afternoon in Los Angeles looks and feels like. I check the weather back home on my iPhone. If I were back in Boston right now, it’d be 4 p.m., fifty degrees, and drizzling. My former classmates are probably stuck in some academic building, listening to a lecture on something that’s probably good for them, but which they don’t even know if they care about, like literary theory or the Spanish conditional. Alex, who’s either in extreme emotional denial or has become a callous asshole in a matter of months, is squirreled away in his precious little ivory tower, meeting snobs and brats.

  I’m living life, I think. I’m going to crazy, hilarious auditions, and meeting my friends on a rooftop in Los Angeles. I’m looking at the fucking ocean. The next time I come here, I’m definitely bringing my bathing suit.

  “Is Raj here?” I ask a bartender who is so beautiful that I can’t believe she’s not famous. Her glowing skin must contain multitudes of vitamins. She has to be an actress—and definitely a Leading Lady type. In the face of her beauty, I understand what Theresa meant when she said I was a character.

  “He’s going to be here any minute,” she says with a disarming sweetness as she muddles mint and lime in a silver cup. “He has his film theory class today. Oh, no, that’s Wednesdays. You know what? I think he had to shoot something for his web series class. Yes, that’s it. He really wants to do well in that.” A smile plays on her lips as she adds ice and rum to the lime mixture. “He’s such a nerd.”

  “I know,” I say as she shakes the drink and strains it into a tall glass.

  “I’m Sierra,” she says, wiping her hand on a bar towel before extending it.

  “Becca,” I say, and shake her delicate and chilled hand.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asks.

  “A Coke,” I say.

  “You’re a friend of Raj?”

  “Yes, and his neighbor,” I say as she puts the Coke on the counter. I reach for my wallet, but she waves me away as she hands me the glass.

  “Forget it. Any friend of Raj’s is a friend of mine. He’s such a love. Which reminds me, I need to see if he can cover for me tomorrow. I have an audition.” I knew it. An actress.

  “What’s your audition for?”

  “Murder Two,” she says as if it’s no big deal to be auditioning for the most watched crime show in the country. “My agent thinks I’m perfect for it, so here’s hoping.” She puts her phone on the bar. “Oh, here he comes.”

  “Becca!” Raj’s eyes light up when he sees me.

  “Hi!” I say as he walks behind the bar and washes his hands. Sierra moves to a customer at the other end of the bar.

  “What a great surprise,” Raj says, pouring some nuts into a little dish and sliding them toward me. “Do you know how much you helped me with my screenplay? I just wrote another scene during my break. And I have a zillion new ideas.”

  “Really? Because of me?”

  “Hell, yeah,” he says as he wipes down the bar. “Now don’t keep me waiting any longer, how was the audition?”

  I’m about to tell him about Thomas and his brown derby when Sierra cuts me off. “Raj, wonderful, wonderful Raj. Can you cover for me tomorrow? I have an audition.”

  “Sure, no problem,” he says. I think I see him sweating a little.

  “And is there any way you would go downstairs to the walk-in and get more pineapple juice? I’d do it, but that one chef is always asking me out and it’s totally creepy.”

  “Of course,” Raj says. “Be right back, Becca.”

  He heads to the elevators, and my heart sinks a little.

  “What a mensch,” Sierra says. “He’s nervous about this screenplay contest, but I think he’ll nail it, don’t you? He’s so brilliant.” She lifts a glass of ice water with slices of lemon in it, and we clink glasses. She smiles at me and for a moment I am so jealous of her that it stings me like a jellyfish. I want her skin, her willowy confidence, her agent, and weirdly, her proximity to Raj.

  “SO YOU’RE JEALOUS,” Suzi Simpson writes in a chapter titled “I Will Survive.” “Well, whoopty-flippin-doo. We’re all jealous! No matter how far you get in life someone is always going to have it better. I know that probably doesn’t help. I know it doesn’t make you feel better. But what if I told you that jealousy can be a tool—just like rejection? That’s right. The same way that rejection can be your fuel, jealousy can be your GPS. The next time you start to feel yourself ‘go green’ (and I’m not talking about recycling, though Lord knows we should all be doing that, too!), whip out that little notebook I told you to buy back in Chapter 2 (you didn’t skip it, did you?), and write down what the other person has that you want. Circle it twice and call it a GOAL.”

  I did not skip Chapter 2, I tell Suzi in my head as I pour myself another cup of coffee at my kitchen table, which only wobbles the tiniest bit, and pull out my list. I already know my number-one goal.

  I circle the word agent twice. Then I skip to Chapter 6, which begins with Suzi’s advice about how to get representation and ends with a list of agencies in Los Angeles. I’ve read it a bunch of times, but I read it again.

  “Okay, kiddos, bad news first,” Suzi writes. “It takes an agent to get an agent. But here’s the good news. You already have one. Look in the mirror and meet the person who’s going to make your dreams come true. That’s right—YOU!

  “Everyone wants digital submissions these days,” Suzi writes. “But I believe that nothing stands out like a high quality photograph, the kind you can actually hold in your hand, delivered in person by you—the most neatly groomed and presentable version of yourself, that is.”

  I’ve been there and done that, and I only got one receptionist to take one measly Polaroid, but I don’t know what else I can do, and I have to do something. Maybe it’ll be different this time. Maybe I don’t look like I just got here anymore—this will be especially true if I can figure out eye makeup. I take a quick trip to the Mayfair, buy whatever I can from their small makeup section, and then watch several YouTube videos. By the time I go to bed, I can confidently check number seven off my list.

  So on my next day off, armed with a bus pass, an outfit I borrowed from Marisol, and my subtle yet effective eye makeup, I set about hand delivering my headshots—again—to talent agencies. I make a list of fourteen agencies that I haven’t been to yet. I address each cover letter and envelope to a specific agent. Then I plan out a route that starts in West Hollywood, continues to Beverly Hills, crosses to Century City, and ends in Santa Monica, where Marisol is going to meet me for what she calls the best happy hour on the planet.

  “You like oysters?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah,” I said.

  “Then, girl, get ready to feast. I’ll see you at the Lanai Hotel at four.”

  Rejection is my fuel, I tell myself every time Alex creeps into my mind. And I swear, this little mantra is working. Instead of feeling sad, I feel pissed off. But that anger doesn’t get me down. Instead, it gets me going. If I feel tempted to get off track and browse in a store, I remember that I am my own agent, working for myself, and I’m not about to slack on the job.

  Many of the agencies have a mail slot with a HEADSHOTS HERE sign. It seems to defeat the purpose of hand delivering as I don’t get to make any personal contact, but I think the universe is taking note. At some agencies you can just walk through the door like you belong there. I always smile as I drop my carefully addressed, handwritten envelopes off with the receptionist. Suzi tells me to say that I was “in the area for a dance class.” I haven’t actually taken a dance class since I was six, but I love the line and what it implies about my life.

  “I was in the area for a dance class,” I tell a gorgeous twenty-something in a modern office with a view of the Hollywood Hills. She’s wearing full makeup and an expensive suit.

  “There’s a dance class around here?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. I nod. “Really? You mean the pole dancing class?”

  “Yes! It’s great for the
abs,” I say, smiling and making a quick exit.

  “Hello? I was in the area for a dance class,” I call down the hallway of an office in Beverly Hills that appears to be empty. I figure everyone is in a meeting, place my headshot on the empty reception desk, and slip out the door.

  “I hope it’s not a problem that I’m dropping by, it’s just that I was in the area for a dance class,” I say to a girl in jeans and a T-shirt at a small office in Santa Monica.

  “I read that book,” she says, and she winks as she takes the envelope from my hand.

  Later I meet Marisol at the Lanai Hotel. She’s found a table in the bar area with a breathtaking view of the beach, and ordered us two glasses of crisp white wine. It must be Marisol’s confidence, but no one asks us for ID. She looks timeless in a yellow maxi dress and a white shawl, her dark hair piled on top of her head.

  “Come, my darling,” she calls to me as I walk toward her. The air is sweet with salt and rosy with afternoon sun. Ropey-legged joggers run past the hotel in neon sneakers. Seagulls strut in the sand. The ocean roars in the distance. A chilly breeze sends goose bumps up my arms, as a waiter in a blue oxford shirt delivers an icy platter of oysters and a basket of warm French bread.

  “We’ll need two more of these,” Marisol says, gesturing to our wineglasses, even though I’ve only had one bracing sip. “I took the bus, too,” she says. “So we can really enjoy ourselves.”

  “You took the bus? But you hate the bus.”

  “But then I realized that we could party, and somehow my fear just”—she snaps her fingers—“went away.” I laugh as she tips an oyster back into her mouth. “Now, tell me about your journey.”

  I go over all the places I visited today, and we eat like we own the town, taking advantage of every last minute of the happy hour. At six o’clock, after two hours of drinking white wine and stuffing ourselves with bread and oysters, our bill is seventy-five dollars, which is somehow so much more than I was expecting it to be. I’m a little worried about making rent this month, but I try not to think about it as I place my credit card on the table.

  “Oh no!” Marisol says when she looks in her purse. “I forgot my wallet!”

  “Don’t worry, I got it,” I say, even though the money I spend makes me feel a little sick. I could have just spent twenty bucks at the Mayfair on beans and rice and a bottle of cheap Chardonnay.

  “Thank you,” Marisol says, resting her head on my shoulder. “I’ll get you back, I swear.”

  Marisol and I stumble out into the sand, take off our shoes, and watch the sun drop into the sea. My head is swimming with wine, and my limbs are loose and warm. We sit back-to-back, and she sings a song in Spanish. I try to join in with her, approximating the words as best I can because I don’t know Spanish. Our voices grow louder and more dramatic, until we are nearly peeing ourselves with laughter. The sky dissolves into lavender, then indigo behind the Santa Monica Pier. Blue-and-red lights illuminate the outline and spokes of a Ferris wheel, like it’s a giant unicycle about to spin across the Pacific.

  For the moment I can forget about the college applications I haven’t been working on. The one exception is the California Film School. I keep pulling up their website when I’m on the bus. It’s so different from the other schools. I think I can ask Mr. Devon, my theater teacher, for a reference again, but who can I ask to write my artistic reference? Who knows my voice when I’m not even sure what it is yet?

  But as far as the other applications, I’m so behind. I feel nauseated with guilt. I take a picture of Ferris wheel lights with the moon behind them and text it to Mom.

  Me: To here and back.

  Mom: Always. Again and again.

  Marisol ties her dress in a knot and turns a cartwheel in the sand. I take the Polaroid camera out of my bag and snap a picture for my collage.

  I TRY TO KEEP a piece of that sunset with me when I waitress, and I’ve been waitressing every day or night. Expenses are adding up faster than I anticipated. The headshots set me back almost twelve hundred dollars, including the prints. For some reason the trash bill in LA is a hundred and fifty dollars a month. I was sure it was an error, but I called the sanitation department and there hasn’t been a mistake. Apparently that’s just what it costs to get rid of garbage here. And then there’s my phone bill, the utilities, groceries, all of my little indulgences like coffee and pastries. I bring people hamburger after hamburger after hamburger and Coke after Coke after Coke. Lately, I’ve been catching the waitressing rhythm, and I think that I’m actually getting the hang of it. I can manage a medium-size section until the dinner rush, when I tend to get flustered. I even managed the night shift on Halloween, serving drunk people dressed up as sexy nurses and truly frightening zombies—though no matter the shift, Gloria makes sure she has at least one negative comment.

  But tonight I’ve had a bunch of shitty tables. The latest is a pair of mothers with fake boobs and plumped-up lips with their two young daughters dressed up like princesses. They don’t look like they belong in this neighborhood. I feel like they got lost on their way to Beverly Hills. It’s almost 8:30 p.m. and the little girls are overtired. They’re alternately giggling and whining, bouncing and collapsing, teetering on emotional extremes. The mothers are trying to have an adult discussion anyway. The mother dominating the conversation makes pointed eye contact with me and taps her watch. I cover my mouth, realizing that I’ve forgotten to put in their order. I flip through my notepad, find their order, punch it in the computer, and bring the little girls extra paper placemats to draw on.

  “I don’t know what they taught you in that fancy private school, but it wasn’t common sense,” Gloria says as she watches me scramble. I ignore her.

  “Here we are,” I say, when I deliver the food ten minutes later. “Careful. It’s a little hot.” No one looks at me. One of the little girls lifts up the bun of her hamburger. She sees sautéed onions and screams. Shoot. I forgot to tell the cooks to leave them off. “Just scrape them off,” I offer cheerfully.

  “They touched it!” the little girl shrieks.

  I smile at her. “Tell you what? I’ll have the chef make you a new burger, with our most secret special ingredient that will make this burger the most delicious burger in the whole, wide world.” She’s on the verge of buying it.

  “We don’t have time for this. This is completely unacceptable,” the mother says. The little girl’s face goes blank as though the mother has siphoned the child’s anger.

  “I’m really sorry. Can I refill your drinks? I’m sure the kitchen can make you another burger very quickly.”

  “Is this really so difficult? We’re dealing with fucking hamburgers here.” She addresses her friend, but the comment is meant for me.

  “It was a mistake. I said I was sorry. There’s no need to be impolite,” I say.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.” Anger flashes across her face as she pushes the plate at me. I catch it but knock over a Diet Coke. The little girl scrambles toward her mother as if it’s human blood that’s dripping from the table. This sets the other little girl off. The children keen in eerie harmony. The whole restaurant is staring.

  “Get me a new waitress.”

  “Michelle,” her friend says. “Let it go.”

  With an inch-thick stack of napkins I mop up the Diet Coke that’s now streaming onto the seat of the booth. My pinky finger accidentally grazes the child’s arm.

  “Don’t you dare touch my daughter,” the woman snaps. The child, sensing that this is her cue, issues a fresh wail from her very core.

  “Go away! Are you fucking deaf, too? Are you fucking retarded?”

  I’ve never been spoken to like this in my life.

  “Michelle,” the other mother says, more firmly. “You’re making her cry.”

  “I want to see the manager!” Michelle points a shaking finger at me.

  I turn away from the table, plate in hand, to see Gloria moving toward me like a 747. She pushes me out of her way. The ham
burger slides off the plate and lands on the woman’s shoes.

  I drop to pick up the burger, but Manuel, the guy who trained me, gets to it first with a dustpan and broom. “It’s okay. I do it,” he says.

  “I got it.”

  “Becca,” he says in his lilting accent, his eyes round and soft with sympathy. “I do it. Take break.”

  “Thank you.” I stand up, wiping my sweaty hands on my apron. I run through the swinging kitchen doors and burst into tears.

  “Was it a customer? Or is Gloria being a bitch?” Peanut asks. I cover my face, embarrassed to be crying in front of the three cooks. “Ignore Gloria,” Pablo says. “She’s crazy. Don’t listen to anything she says.”

  “I can’t get fired,” I say through my hands, thinking about the money I’ve been spending, especially my credit card bill. It started when I put the headshots on there, but these little things—like dinner with Marisol on the beach—are adding up.

  “Don’t let her see you cry, pretty baby. Don’t let her see you cry,” Pablo says. I nod, brush away the tears on my cheeks, and wipe my nose on my shirt. He hands me an institutional brown paper towel from the cook’s hand-washing station. “And don’t wipe your nose on your shirt. You’re better than that.”

  Gloria puts their meal on the house, then takes the cost of the entire check from my tips, making sure to tell the woman that this is what happened. She sends me home early and I’m suspended until Saturday. I leave with six dollars, two of which are in change. I’m going to get a new job as soon as I possibly can.

  As I step out of the restaurant I check my voice mail. An agent call would make this whole evening disappear. It would lift me up as if on wings. Maybe, just maybe, all of my pavement pounding has paid off. But no. I have no new messages.