Life As I Blow It

by Sarah Colonna

  “Line?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, we didn’t realize. We just walked right in,” I replied.

  “No, do you want a line?” She nodded toward her tray.

  I looked down at what she was carrying and saw that on her cute little tray were big fat lines of blow. I’d never seen cocaine in person, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t offering us a baby powder sample. She pulled two small straws out of her cleavage and offered them to us.

  “I’m good. I don’t want to end up Regina’d,” I told her.

  She looked at me like I was dumb, then to Tilley, who shook her head and waved the girl off.

  “Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re not a cokehead,” I sighed in relief.

  “What the hell does ‘Regina’d’ mean?” she asked.

  Hadn’t anybody else read Sweet Valley High? “Never mind, but can we get out of here? I’m really uncomfortable and I think I just felt a cockroach go up my pants.”

  Tilley agreed to getting out of there and we made our way toward the exit. When we got to the street we heard someone yelling after us. It was the guy we had followed there. I’d forgotten about him.

  “Hey! Wait up! Where are you guys going?” he asked.

  “Um, not really our scene. We kind of want to go dancing,” Tilley responded. Even though I hated dance clubs, I nodded in agreement with her.

  “Oh, I know a sweet place to dance. Also—look, I have this …” He reached into his pocket and I stepped back, ready for him to pull out a gun or perhaps some heroin. Instead he waved a yellow flyer in our faces.

  “Two for one. I can get two of us in for the price of one cover charge. You girls have cash? I don’t have any on me.”

  “You have a coupon?” Tilley asked, disgusted. “You have a coupon and you don’t even have the cash to cover your half of the coupon?” I burst out laughing. My Southern accent was already fading, but hers was going strong, which made her coupon statement that much better.

  The guy stared blankly at us. We left.

  Just when I was at the end of my rope—I was still living with my dad and driving an hour back and forth to Los Angeles to take a crappy acting class—Tilley called me to see if I wanted to move in with her. She had a one-bedroom that she’d been sharing with a girl who was moving back to Arkansas. I wished it was a two-bedroom but I evaluated my living situation and determined that I didn’t have a ton of room to be picky. I quickly announced to Dad and Shirley that I was moving up to Los Angeles. They pretended to be sad but I could see them immediately calculating what they’d be saving on booze and the phone bill alone.

  Since we only had the one bedroom, my dad gave Tilley and me a trundle bed, which is basically a fucked-up bunk bed. One bed fits right under the other to save space, then at night when you pull it out, voilà—you have two beds. It’s pretty embarrassing for anyone over the age of six to be sleeping on, but I didn’t care. I was so happy to be finally living in L.A. and to start building a real life for myself. Outside of noticing right away that Tilley liked to open drawers and closets and not close them, living with her felt manageable.

  There was a bar right down the street called Bird’s. They served strong drinks and chicken and it was within walking distance of our new place, although I preferred to take a cab.

  One night we’d been out late at Bird’s and both fell asleep in the living room. I woke up to the sound of Tilley gasping. I assumed she was just developing lung cancer since at the time we both smoked like we were getting paid for it. I saw her headed for the front door in a panic and I realized something bad was happening. I mean if she had lung cancer it would have been bad, but this seemed like it was bad for me.

  I saw a guy coming through the door. When she went toward him, he backed out and she slammed the door shut. She screamed for me to call 911. I quickly dialed emergency and explained to the operator that a man had attempted to enter our apartment.

  “Did he break in?” the operator inquired.

  “I guess. We were asleep, so we definitely didn’t invite him.”

  “Where is the man now?”

  “Where is he now?” I asked Tilley.

  She looked out the window, then jumped back about four feet.

  “He’s across the street!” she cried.

  “He’s across the street!” I yelled into the phone.

  “Okay, stay calm. Can you see what he’s doing?”

  “Well, what’s he doing?” I asked Tilley. “This woman is grilling me.”

  “He’s just kind of standing there, staring,” she answered.

  “Does he have a weapon?” I threw that question out there myself. I was doing a better job than the 911 operator.

  “Wait. Oh my God, he’s jacking off!” Tilley shrilled.

  “Oh my God, he’s jacking off!” I cried into the phone.

  “The police are on their way.”

  While we waited for the cops to show up, I decided to keep an eye out for the masturbator. I cracked open the door, chain lock solidly in place. I spotted him and made eye contact with him.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Sorry, I was just jacking off.”

  After that incident I had trouble getting a good night’s sleep. Tilley started staying at her boyfriend’s house more often, which was great for her but shitty for me. I spent several nights lying wide awake wondering if that would have happened to me in Arkansas. I didn’t want to think about it. If I allowed myself to get nostalgic for “back home” every time something questionable happened in California, I wouldn’t have lasted long. I also decided not to tell any of my parents about the masturbator. I didn’t want them to worry.

  I went on the hunt for a job in L.A. After looking for a couple of weeks, I got hired at a place named Smokin’ Johnnie’s and right under the sign it read BOOZE, BLUES, AND BBQS! It was a shithole just over the hill on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City. It had a dirty bathroom, plastic tables, and a sticky floor. The clientele was exactly what you’d expect from that description. But the ribs were pretty amazing.

  I was not thrilled with coming home every night smelling like pulled pork, but I was happy to have a job. I was making money; I just needed to stay positive. I certainly wasn’t going to get discovered by an agent or meet any guys at this crappy place, but at least I could afford to keep my side of the trundle bed warm. One afternoon—because I still didn’t get scheduled for the night shifts—I worked a big party of about thirty people. The manager, who was pretty repulsive, was foaming at the mouth at the amount of money these people were spending. It wasn’t a lot, but since the average lunch table spent seventeen dollars—for two—he was pumped. Nothing there was organized, the cooks were laughably slow, and the layout was stupid, so I ran around like an asshole all day. I constantly refilled iced teas and picked up wads and wads of dirty, BBQ-stained napkins. These people are animals, I thought.

  I was so happy when they left and my shift ended. The only thing that got me through that day was knowing I had made some pretty good money for once. With the “automatic gratuity on parties of six or more” rule, this might be my best shift ever. I walked over to my manager to get my payout. He slapped a twenty in my hand and winked at me.

  “Good work, kiddo!” he beamed.

  I looked down at the twenty dollars. “Oh, thanks!” I said. I thought it was nice he was giving me a little extra for my hard work. “Can I get the tip from the party? I want to go home.”

  “You have it right there!” He smiled.

  I stared at him, confused. “But that’s twenty dollars. Their bill was at least four hundred. We added fifteen percent gratuity. That’s sixty dollars.” I wondered if he was impressed with my quick math.

  “We split it up. I booked the party and I helped you. That’s your cut.”

  “My cut? It’s my table. You’re a manager. You aren’t supposed to get a tip. And splitting it would be thirty dollars.”

  “Slow down … I booked the party …” He started to
defend himself.

  “You answered a fucking phone call, which is what a manager does. You didn’t book anything. Give me the rest of my money. It isn’t yours.”

  “This is how it works here,” he said flatly and walked away.

  There wasn’t really anything I could do so I walked over to the reservation book and looked over my shift the next day. I was the only waitress scheduled and there was a party of twenty and another party of fifteen coming in. I don’t know why it’s busy tomorrow, but I like it, I thought. I flipped to the back of the book where all of the other waitresses’ phone numbers were and ripped out the page. I figured this was fair; at least the next day he’d earn the tip he’d stolen from me today. He wasn’t smart enough to have a backup contact list, but I was smart enough to make sure he’d be screwed.

  My legs shook as I drove, crying, back to the apartment. I couldn’t believe I’d just quit a job. I had no money saved and there was no way I was going to ask my parents for any. I’ve always had this Don’t worry, I’m fine attitude, regardless of whether I’m actually fine. I don’t want to depend on someone else. I think it comes from watching my mother struggle to regain her own identity once she and my father were divorced. Somewhere along the line she had to find her footing again. If I never lost my footing, I’d never have to find it.

  I got home and started to feel panicked so I went over to the bar where Tilley worked to tell her about my day. When I filled her in, she grabbed her crazy Greek boss and told me to tell him the story.

  “That’s disgusting!” he yelled when I told him about the manager that had stolen my tips. “Don’t worry, we have a job for you here. You start tomorrow.”

  “What?” I said, shocked.

  “What?” Tilley asked.

  “Yeah baby, don’t worry,” he said in his Greek accent. “Tomorrow. See you then.”

  He walked away.

  “You didn’t tell me you guys were hiring!” I said excitedly to Tilley.

  “We aren’t.”

  “Really? Then what’s he talking about?”

  We both looked over and noticed George yelling at one of the other waitresses. She argued with him for a second, then threw down her apron and left.

  “I guess that’s what he was talking about.”

  I wasn’t special. It turns out that girl had been pissing George off daily and my sob story was all he needed to push him over the edge. I felt guilty for about half an hour, then remembered that I had ten dollars in my checking account.

  Mirabelle turned out to be a great place to work. Aside from Tilley, I worked with a guy named Chris Franjola, who also did stand-up. That was one of the things that I wanted to do and I now had someone to talk about it with. We’re friends to this day, and I even get to work with him.

  After work we always went to the bar next door, called Red Rock. On any given night it was like a frat house, so I liked it. Mirabelle closed earlier than they did so we always headed over there for last call, then the bartender would let us stay and drink while he closed up. I made a habit of stopping by there after my Sunday brunch shifts with my coworker Jackie. We’d always plan to have a Bloody Mary and go home but would end up sitting on the same stool in our black pants and white shirts until at least 1 A.M.

  There was a manager named Barry who worked there and was always flirting with me. His face was acceptable, but he had a weird body. His waist was where his knees should be, so we called him “Lo-Waisted” behind his back. As I type this I realize that it probably isn’t that funny to read, but it made us laugh.

  I was never even the slightest bit attracted to Lo-Waisted, so one night I went home with him. I had been at the bar for at least six hours with no break from drinking other than to pee. Lo-Waisted offered to drive my car to his house, which, looking back, was no help. If he had truly wanted to assist me he would have driven my car to my house and then cabbed home; at least that’s what he would have done if he weren’t trying to get laid. I covered one eye so that I could see Jackie clearly and told her that Barry was going to give me a lift to his place.

  “You’re going home with Lo-Waisted because you’re wasted,” she laughed.

  “Right?!” I giggled.

  I said bye to her and the next thing I knew I was at Lo-Waisted’s apartment. The only thing I remember from the drive was that I was glad I was not driving. His place was small but it didn’t really matter since we went straight to the bedroom. We had uneventful sex, but I don’t put all the blame on him since for most of it I was in a blackout. The next thing I knew, it was morning. I rolled over to see that I was lying in bed next to Lo-Waisted. I need to start going home after my Sunday shifts, I thought to myself.

  He was dead asleep so I felt confident I could get out of there without waking him. I grabbed my clothes—my waitressing clothes—and put them back on. There isn’t a worse feeling than that. I grabbed my black Reeboks and my shirt that said “Don Julio Rules,” picked up my purse, and headed out the door. I was in a rush, but caught out of the corner of my eye that his apartment was disgusting. It had a funky smell and there was a piece of pizza sitting on the coffee table, all by itself. I officially hated Lo-Waisted.

  When I got to the parking garage I couldn’t remember where he had left my car. After a few minutes I finally spotted it, and I ran. Suddenly I was in a panic to leave. I didn’t want him to wake up and come down to find me. I was barefoot, hopefully not pregnant, and really hungover. I just wanted to get home. I couldn’t figure out how he had gotten my car into the spot it was in. I couldn’t even open the door all the way; I had to turn my body into a pretzel and slide through. I felt like I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I threw the car in reverse and instantly heard a loud “crunch” sound. I looked behind me … thank God … not a person. Then I looked to my left and saw that I had hit a huge beam. In order to keep from doing worse damage, I’d need to go forward, do a bunch of quarter turns, and maneuver out. So I gunned it and let the beam scrape all the way down the side of my Mustang. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. That car sucked anyway.

  I didn’t want to have to give up going to Red Rock, so the next day I went in with Jackie. When I saw Lo-Waisted, I just pretended that nothing had happened. I hugged him around his waist, which required me to bend my knees, then plopped down on a stool and ordered a vodka cranberry with an extra shot of vodka. He was too confused to do anything but follow my lead and act normal. Jackie was shocked.

  “Really? That works?” she asked.

  “Every time,” I told her. “Guys are more insecure than we are. All you have to do is act like everything is fine. They’re just so relieved they don’t have to deal with your feelings; they don’t want to talk about it, either.”

  “But what if they like you? Lo-Waisted doesn’t necessarily realize that you knowingly did permanent damage to your car just so you could get out of his garage.”

  “I know. That’s why this works. Now he will be way too insecure to ask me out. He’ll just chalk it up to a one-night stand and move on.”

  “Okay, so what if you like them?” she challenged me.

  “I haven’t figured that one out yet,” I said, then polished off a plate of chicken fingers.

  HELL CAT

  After several months of living in Los Angeles, I started to realize that I wasn’t doing much to get my career going. I hadn’t moved to L.A. to waitress, but the only productive thing I’d done outside of that was take a bad acting class. That wasn’t going anywhere, since most of the time all the teacher had us do was sit in a chair in the middle of the room and conjure up emotions, which is what I already did at home.

  Some of the waiters I worked with told me that I should take an improv class. They said it would come in handy for thinking on my feet during auditions. I nodded my head in agreement even though I had never been on an actual audition.

  I flipped through the free weekly paper and found a cheap improv class in Sherman Oaks. I was nervous the first night, but it was j
ust introductory. We all went around and said a little bit about ourselves in an attempt to get to know one another. There were a couple of people who stood out to me as someone I’d want to hang out with: a guy named Neil and a girl named Chelsea.

  Chelsea seemed like fun and she quickly confirmed that she was. We had similar sensibilities and a similar affection for cocktails. Neil, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. He didn’t drink at all. In fact, he told me he had never had a drink in his life.

  “Never even a sip?” I challenged him.

  “Never even a sip,” he responded. “Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me?”

  “Because it just sounds so … so … dumb,” I said.

  “I guess that’s what people think. But alcohol just doesn’t interest me.”

  “Do you have a hard time getting along with people who drink?” He was cute, so I needed to know the answer to that question right away.

  “Not at all. But usually people who like to drink have a hard time accepting that I don’t.”

  “Well, that sounds really immature. How sad for them.” Inside, I feared I might agree with “them.”

  But I figured his not drinking shouldn’t be a big deal to me if my excessive drinking wasn’t going to be a big deal to him. He also drove any time that we went out, which was kind of awesome.

  Neil was new to town, via Florida. He told me that he had once performed for a week in Australia, so I felt like he had already made it in show business. Chelsea had also recently moved to L.A., so it felt good to have new friends who were trying to figure it out like I was.

  The class itself was really stupid. Although I very much appreciate and respect people who are good at improv, I dislike doing it. That’s probably because I suck at it. I can think on my feet; I just find the “games” annoying. Maybe that’s why I always knew what I wanted to do. In acting, things are written for you. In stand-up, you write it yourself. In both, you don’t have to ask the audience to help you come up with an uncomfortable scenario.