Before I even landed at LAX, I had decided to head straight to Greener Pastures as soon as I got off the plane. I know it’s a day early, but I have a few reasons, which I wrote down in my handy purple notebook that’s constantly with me. I read my rules over as my driver rolls down all the windows and cranks the music.
Rules for Conquering Greener Pastures
You can’t meet your new roommate until 5 o’clock, so use your time wisely and get to know the company.
Get there early to learn the layout of the area and building so you know exactly where to go and what to expect.
Showing up early will impress Morris. It shows initiative and enthusiasm.
Do everything you can to show how serious you are about this position and your future in filmmaking.
If Morris is there, don’t be afraid to show him your script. He might be dying to read a fresh script from an aspiring film student after weeks of sorting through scripts written by the same jaded professionals.
Honestly, I would probably be much happier if Greener Pastures were in New York City, which seems more like my scene. I make films on my terms. I’ve read enough articles about the greedy, shallow, awful people in the Hollywood scene to know that the last thing I ever want to become is a professional asshole, or worse, a sell-out. Hollywood is too pretty, too shiny, and just too . . . self-involved. Can a city be in love with itself? Well, I bet Los Angeles is.
The taxi emerges from a dark tunnel and I gasp. The Pacific Ocean stretches out in front of me.
Touché, LA, I think.
The sun hits the water at just the right angle, making it look like the waves are winking at me. Palm trees dot the shoreline, breaking up my view of the water at rapid intervals. I want to take it all in, every single detail—the cyclists traveling in packs, the dive bar with a row of surfboards propped up by the entrance—but my mind keeps wandering to my introduction to Morris.
Do I tell him I’m a huge fan or act casual? I’m sure he’s used to being fawned over, so should I treat him like a normal person and not a man who might single-handedly change my life forever?
I reach for the stack of papers sticking out of my messenger bag—my working Tower script—to jot down some more notes. Tower is my baby—if a film can be a baby. Most of the people I went to film school with were foaming at the mouth to move out to Los Angeles to become the next Michael Bay, the next Chuck Lorre, the next big thing. They wanted the money, the fame, and the glamour. I just wanted to make films and tell stories that will mean something to people.
So after too many days spent around classmates gossiping about the newest cover of some tabloid magazine or obsessing over what kind of movies would make them richest quick, I started working on Tower, a story about Hollywood’s golden facade, the rot beneath it, and the one girl who can change everything back to the way things were when Hollywood was a respected city.
Loud, angry honking pulls me from my thoughts. I look out my window and see that we have left the serene, funky beach area of LA and are now sitting on a freeway with nothing but cars across eight lanes. My flight landed at noon, so we must be hitting the lunchtime rush. At least, I hope that’s what the explanation is for this parking lot of a road. After a few minutes of stop-and-go traffic, I have to put away my Tower notes because I’m starting to feel nauseated. I think it’s from the constant braking, but it might also be because in less than an hour, I will be meeting and talking to Morris Kensington.
I suddenly feel the cheese and crackers I had on the plane start to sour in the pit of my stomach. Okay, the cheese and crackers and cookies and pretzels I had on the plane. I rest my head against the door and try to enjoy the warm wind whipping through the window.
After another twenty minutes in the cab (a ride that cost most of my month’s spending money), we mercifully arrive at Greener Pastures. I step out of the cab, my luggage on either side of me, and stare up at my dream.
Alright, I tell myself. Let’s get this movie rolling.
Chapter Two
I have to admit—I’m a little disappointed. I had pictured a funky little office building with bright signage, but what I see in front of me is a tall office building, all glittering glass and steel. It looks like any office building you’d find anywhere. The only difference is the palm trees that line the walkway to the front door, but other than that, I might as well be going in for an interview at a boring marketing firm back in the Midwest. I adjust the strap to my messenger bag and start dragging my suitcases to the giant sliding doors.
A burst of air-conditioning hits me as I make my way through the lobby, which looks like an Apple store, and head toward the elevators. The wheels on my suitcase have always been a bit squeaky, but when they’re combined with a shiny floor and a large open space, the tiny squeaks become SQUEAKS that echo forever through the lobby.
The security guard at the front desk lazily flips through an architecture magazine, but he stops reading briefly to follow me with his eyes. He says nothing and just yawns loudly as he watches me squeak all the way to the elevator bank.
A guy steps next to me, dressed in a suit that must be expensive, because he has an air about him that screams: “I pay lots of money for my suits.” Based on the thousand times I’ve watched Wall Street, I think he might be an investment banker. I look down at my own outfit and am grateful I chose a profession where I can wear skinny jeans (this time, a bright violet) and a white tee. But as I study his expensively cut suit, I’m happy that I decided to keep my heels on. They aren’t usually a part of my daily outfit, but I am here to make an impression.
Hopefully, it’s a good one.
The Suit presses the “Up” button, and I skim the office directory as casually as possible so that The Suit thinks this is just another day at the office for me.
Greener Pastures Production: Suite 409
The elevator arrives, and I step in with The Suit. I press “4,” but nothing happens. I try again. Nothing.
The Suit, seeing my struggle, reaches over to wave some sort of badge over a little box below the buttons. Then he presses “4,” which obediently lights up.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile. “Must have left mine in the car.” He smiles back encouragingly, as if he knows it’s my first day at a brand new life.
I take a moment to study The Suit in the elevator with me, searching out a story.
His suit is new. His shoes are not. Maybe he can only afford one or the other right now. His iPhone is an older model. Is he against change or just too busy to upgrade? No wedding ring. Single? Divorced?
“Where are you headed?” he asks. I snap out of my intense scene-studying.
“Greener Pastures Productions,” I say proudly. I already sound like someone working in the business. I am working in the business, I realize giddily. I can’t wait to keep my head down, work my ass off, and climb my way to the top—and by top, I don’t mean a nice place in the Hollywood Hills. I mean the top of the list of directors and filmmakers that people respect.
The Suit gives me a weird look and opens his mouth, but the elevator has arrived, so I just give him a curt nod as I stroll onto the fourth floor.
A reception desk in front of me stands empty and unmanned. I walk up to it and peer over the edge of the desk, but there is nothing except a computer monitor without a keyboard and a stack of Post-it notes still in the plastic wrap.
“Hello?” I call out. Nothing. It’s almost two o’clock on a Monday. Surely someone must be back from lunch by now.
“Excuse me?” I try again. Still nothing. I start to feel the first flutter of panic in my chest. Maybe I’m in the wrong place. But then I glance down to a stack of papers that have a Greener Pasture Productions letterhead and relax a bit.
I walk away from the desk, lean my luggage against the wall next to a big red couch in the waiting area, and sit down. I pull out my phone to call Lori, Morris’s assistant. She hired me and is the only Greener Pasture employee I’ve had contact with so far. If she’s here
, maybe she can give me something to do. Or, at the very least, a tour.
My call goes straight to voice mail—maybe they’re in the middle of a meeting? I am a day early, so maybe I shouldn’t be barging in right now. I consider leaving, but the idea of getting into another cab makes my soul die a little bit.
Besides, Lori will like my initiative.
Right?
I start typing out a quick “I’m here!” text to her when the elevator doors ding open again. A redhead, probably only five or so years older than me, steps out wearing black leggings and an oversized white men’s shirt, her curly hair on top of her head in a bun secured by three pens. Her face is pink, as if she’s been running stairs, and the curls that have fallen out of her bun are slick with sweat. She’s definitely frazzled about something.
She strides with purpose toward the door behind the reception desk and disappears behind it. She clearly didn’t see me.
I fight the urge to put on my favorite baseball cap, which might be too casual for SoCasual. I try to calm down my messy locks, but I end up getting my finger tangled and pulling my own hair. Ow.
I decide to leave my bags and follow the redhead. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and plaster a smile on my face as I walk through the door, expecting to see a bunch of people at computers typing up call sheets, or on phones trying to secure a shooting location. But what I see instead stops me in my tracks.
The entire floor is a wasteland.
No people. No cubicles. Not even a chair. The only sign of life is the redheaded girl, who’s rifling through some file boxes stacked on the floor while she chomps noisily on gum.
My phone blips, signaling a text, and the redhead stops her movements and looks up at me. She looks startled for a moment but then goes back to what I assume is her permanent look of frazzled-ness.
“Who are you? If you’re the messenger from the business park office, I told you guys on the phone that we’d be out of here today,” she says in a clipped tone. “I’m just picking up some last-minute files, so you don’t need to be here.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. I think you’ve made a mistake. You see—”
“You’re not from the business park office?” she interrupts, taking her hands out of the file box and walking slowly over to me.
“No, I’m Dani Young. I’m supposed to start work with Greener Pastures tomorrow. I came today because I thought—”
“Oh, shit. I forgot I hired you.”
“I’m sorry?” My voice is quiet, but it still sounds like a shout in the cavernous office.
“I’m Lori,” she says, without bothering to shake my hand or anything.
I nod eagerly and give a big, introducing-myself-on-first-day-of-school wave. “Oh, hi! I’m Dani. Sorry, I didn’t get any emails about moving offices. Where are we moving?”
“We’re not going anywhere. Greener Pastures has folded.”
I’m stunned silent, shock weighing me down like lead, and Lori’s already returned to rifling through the papers. After a minute, she turns around and sees me still standing there. She throws her hands up.
“Look around. Does this look like a production company still in business?” She gestures to the ghost town that used to be an office.
“What?”
“Greener Pastures is out of money. We’re shut down.”
“What?”
“We lost funding on our latest project, so we had to shut down. Actually we downsized to like, four employees. Now we’re just trying to get some money to continue filming.”
“Wh—”
“Before you say ‘what’ again, let me make this very clear. I’m very sorry no one told you sooner, but we aren’t in production right now. No film, no need for production people. Do you understand?”
My vision begins to swim as I realize what she’s saying. I flew all the way out to Los Angeles, and the job I was supposed to have waiting for me no longer exists. No Greener Pastures. No chance to work with Morris Kensington. No . . . well, no reason for me to even be in Los Angeles.
“Again, I’m sorry. Maybe we’ll get funding again soon and we can use you. But I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Lori says, her back already turned to me.
“You can use me now! I have this idea for a film that I’m sure someone will want to fund, and it’s right up Morris—er, Mr. Kensington’s alley.” I look down and see Tower sticking out of my purse. “It’s called Tower and is loosely based on the story of Babylon but set in modern day Los Angeles. It has this girl who comes to the City of Angels only to discover that it’s all this facade covering Hollywood’s disgusting underbelly. It’s dark and . . . and it’s gritty. And it’s a real middle finger to the film industry, which I think—”
“These days nobody wants independent films that won’t make any of the studios money,” Lori says with a sigh. Her voice has that gentle-when-irritated tone of an impatient mother talking to her child. “They want big budget crap piles, or cheap horror movies, or some TV show all about angsty teenagers who also happen to be mermaids or some shit like that.”
“Well, maybe if you . . .”
I trail off as I see what exactly Lori is holding in her hand. It’s a resume with Lori’s name at the top. That can’t be a good sign. She sees me staring at it and shrugs.
“I came here to make copies. I know there’s a copier that’s been left behind here somewhere. I’m sure my job with Morris and Greener Pastures is on its last leg, so . . .”
She doesn’t finish her thought. She just gives me a look that actually could be genuine remorse and walks past me. Her expensive perfume is like a slap in the face. I remember the new me—the LA me—and catch up with her before putting myself right in her way.
“What am I supposed to do now? I moved out here from Chicago. I don’t have anything else lined up! This . . . this was it,” I gasp as my chest starts to tighten.
“Want my advice, kiddo?” she asks in a tone that implies she’ll give me advice regardless of whether I want it or not.
“Kiddo?” I snap at her, already feeling helpless and out of patience. She can’t be much older than twenty-five herself.
“I’ve been in this business since I was sixteen. Here’s my advice: if you want to make highbrow films that you’ll be proud of, you’d better have a sugar da—” she looks me up and down, “—rich father or something. Because nobody wants to make those right now. If you had any sense, you’d give up that indie dream and find a job on a hit TV show or something. At least it’s guaranteed employment. Well, until the ratings go south. Then it’s not a guarantee. Actually, nothing in this business is a guarantee. But I would find a job at some TV drama about fairies or zombies or vampires, because that’s all anybody wants to watch right now. Get some money and then maybe five or ten years down the line, the business will change, or you’ll have enough money to blow it on some rehashed student film.”
Lori ends her speech with a pat on my arm. It has all the warmth of a stranger accidentally running into you at the grocery store, which is basically none. In a second, she’s gone. I lean against the wall and sink to the ground, the ding of the elevator door faint behind me. I’m alone.
I blink back tears. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I can’t cry. I can’t.
My phone buzzes, snapping me back to the empty room. I take out my phone and see a message from my mom.
Glad you landed safely! We can’t wait to hear about your first day! Love u xxoo
Suddenly, I miss my parents, so much that it leaves me breathless. I try taking deep breaths but my chest just gets tighter. Frantic mouthfuls of air are doing nothing for me—I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I have to dial home. My parents will know what to do. Fingers shaking, I punch their number into my phone. I know Mom will be sympathetic and offer suggestions on how to stay out here, but Dad . . . Dad will want me to come straight home. He’s always wanted me to be a dentist, just like him, hoping I’ll inherit the family business.
I stop my
self at the thought of staring at bleeding gums and molars for the rest of my life. No, I can’t tell them. I can’t go back. I have to at least try and pick up the pieces while I’m here and see if I can’t put something together. I need to hack it in the business.
Rule number one for succeeding: Don’t give up.
I put my phone back in my bag and shut my eyes tightly. Suddenly I’m desperately craving a root beer float. It’s the only thing that will calm me down. I have Elise Fauntleroy to thank for that addiction.
When I was a little girl in Illinois, I got picked on because I spent my time watching movies instead of going to slumber parties or flirting with boys. After one particularly nasty encounter in fourth grade, Elise found me crying behind the gym. She had moved to our town only a few weeks before, and she told me she didn’t have any friends either. She told me that when she cried, her mom made her feel better with a root beer float. That day I had my first root beer float at Elise’s house, and I had my first real friend.
Even when Elise and I drifted apart years later, those floats were a delicious reminder that any problem could be fixed with a frothy, sweet ice cream treat.
But there’s no soda fountain in sight. Just this sterile lobby.
And I have a roommate whom I’ve never met waiting for me to arrive at an apartment that I will apparently no longer be able to afford. The least I can do is show up.
My bags squeak the entire trip back to the curb.
I can’t afford a cab, so I start walking down the sidewalk, dragging my overstuffed suitcases behind me. I’m pretty sure that I spotted a bus stop several blocks down during my cab ride here, so I go in that direction.
As I walk to the bus stop, I get more and more depressed. Every person I pass is so beautiful, so sparkly, so trendy, and so . . . tan. A young guy running with his dog gives me a friendly smile, which somehow makes me feel more depressed. How is everyone here so attractive and healthy? Los Angeles residents seem to glow from the inside.
Rules of Seduction Page 2