Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  I catch a reflection of myself in a storefront window. I’ve always considered myself a nice-enough looking girl: normal body, normal face with big, blue eyes that people call my “best feature”—which really means that my eyes are the only thing special about my appearance. Still, when I actually attempt to dress up (which is very, very rarely), I think I pass for “pretty.” But not, you know, like that.

  And sure, I want my films and my work to be more important than my looks, but no girl can feel good about herself when walking by clones of Mila Kunis and Jennifer Lawrence. Actually, Jennifer Lawrence would be perfect to star in Tower . . .

  That thought depresses me even more. Who cares about my script if I can’t get anyone to look at it? It’s not even finished! It’s just an idea that I was hoping Morris would help me develop.

  I reach the stop right as a bus pulls up—my first stroke of good luck all day. After spending five minutes explaining to the bus driver where I want to go (and ignoring the glares of people who are just trying to get home from work), I end up back on the street, on my way to a different bus stop that the driver said will eventually spit me out somewhere near Culver City. I hope.

  When I finally board the right bus, it is so crowded that I have to stand with my luggage between a man who is gnawing on a sloppy piece of pizza and a high school senior whose trance music is blasting so loud I can hear it through his headphones. Why bother with the headphones, then?

  I watch Los Angeles roll by. The city looked bright and shiny and full of promises when I was in the cab earlier. Now it looks bleak, full of smog, and overcrowded. People driving honk at each other and at the bus. Two girls in the back of the bus are speaking a language I don’t know and laughing at something. Probably me.

  The City of Angels is now my personal hell.

  Rules of Driving in Los Angeles

  Say a prayer to the traffic gods.

  Check traffic and find out how long it’ll take to get where you are going. Then add thirty minutes to your commute.

  Accept your fate.

  Chapter Three

  Public transportation in Los Angeles is an absolute shit show. After two hours of asking directions, checking my phone, and trying to decipher what I think are bus maps, I finally figured out how to get to the correct stop. And that “correct stop” was actually still two whole miles from the apartment I am sharing with a girl named Brit Cinder, who posted an ad to Craigslist looking for a “clean nonsmoker.”

  Brit told me her former roommate had moved out to live with her boyfriend, so a bed, nightstand, and dresser were left behind, waiting for me.

  A bed. That sounds heavenly. I could use a nap. Or a coma. Just something that leads to an unconscious state. But that’s still two miles from where I’m standing.

  As I hike to my new home, I go over my script in my head. Okay, script isn’t quite the right word—I need to finish it, but I’m not sure where to start. Tower is set in Los Angeles, but I’ve only been here for half a day, and I don’t have much info to go on. Except for the fact that LA will smash your dreams to pieces and then throw you on a bus to nowhere.

  I’m feeling very sorry for myself when I finally arrive at Brit’s apartment complex.

  Correction: my apartment complex, at least until Brit finds out I have no job.

  It’s small and the gate is wide open, which doesn’t give me the greatest sense of security, but I’m so tired and worn out and jet-lagged that I just keep my head down and drag my suitcases until I arrive at apartment number 9.

  I knock and am greeted from behind a closed door with a prompt, “Come in!” I put my hand on the knob and push. Nothing.

  “Oh! The door sticks! Just turn the knob, put your shoulder against the door, and push,” someone, I assume Brit, yells at me as I struggle with the door.

  I follow Brit’s instructions and burst through the door, drug-bust style. After two minutes of struggling to get my bags in the doorway, I brush the dirt of my travels off and turn to face my new roommate. I expect to see a girl sitting on the couch watching TV. What I see instead is . . .

  A human pretzel.

  A girl on the floor of the living room with her legs behind her head, smiling up at me. Sitar music is floating from a nearby iPod dock and the kitchen counters are covered in every type of vegetable known to man, and probably some that haven’t been discovered yet.

  “Hi! You must be Dani! I’m Brit,” says the knot of limbs. She untangles an arm from behind her torso and holds it out to me.

  I walk over and bend down to shake her hand. Brit is strikingly beautiful, so beautiful I know and don’t care that I’m openly staring at her. She has crazy-long wavy hair that a screenwriter would call “cinnamon-colored” and almond-shaped eyes that are a vibrant jade. They must be fake. I look closer to see if I can see the outlines of colored contacts in her eyes, but Brit has begun to untangle herself from her knot.

  “I’m glad you made it! I was just doing some quick poses so I could find my center before you got here. The spirit needs to be open to accept new friends, you know?”

  “Um, kind of,” I half-nod my head. “But I’m glad to be here, too. You wouldn’t believe the day I had.”

  “Oh, I could tell the moment you stepped through the door. Your aura color was all off. Dark. Red. Low-energy.” Brit pauses for a moment, a seriously concerned look on her face. “I’m sorry.”

  I try to decipher whether she’s joking when I realize that I’m still staring at her. She has successfully untangled herself out of her yoga position and has risen to her full height. She’s at least 5’10’’ and covered head to toe in black Lycra. Tall. Long-limbed. Lithe. Beautiful.

  When Brit bends down to touch her toes, I start looking around the apartment. She has decorated it with rich purple, gold, and deep turquoise. Incense burns somewhere.

  “Let me give you the grand tour,” she says, sweeping a radiant hand across the small space. She beckons me to follow. “Here is the living room. And here is the kitchen.”

  “It’s . . . lovely,” I say, trying to mean it.

  “Sorry about the mess in the kitchen. I’m trying out new recipes for my food truck.”

  “You own a food truck? That’s really cool.”

  “Well, most of the time. It’s not that cool when someone calls your meals ‘lawn clippings.’” Now Brit’s picking apart vegetable shavings. They do kind of look like lawn clippings. “I specialize in vegan food,” she explains. “No dairy, no meat, no . . .”

  “. . . taste?” I finish without thinking. I close my eyes and scold myself for being a smart-ass. But when I open my eyes I see Brit is smiling.

  “Yeah, basically. I’m from the South, so the fact that I’m serving meals without butter or cheese is a crime. Just ask my mom,” she tells me with an added twang in her voice.

  I gently push aside a notebook that has a recipe for something called “Pumpkin Power” scribbled on it.

  “I heard that everyone’s vegan here.”

  “Los Angeles is the land of vegans, so I’m hoping my business will take off. Try a shot of my ‘Ridiculous Radish’ smoothie.”

  Brit cheerily brandishes a shot glass full of radish goo at me. I take it from her and throw it back. It’s bitter, bitter, and then bitter some more. And the texture reminds me of when I get head colds and I’m constantly swallowing my own mucus.

  “Mmmm,” I say, struggling to keep it down. “Thanks. It’s . . . healthy tasting.”

  “That’s okay. Hannah doesn’t like it either.”

  “Hannah?” I ask.

  Brit blushes. “Oh, Hannah’s just a girl who I, um, do yoga with.” The way she says this makes it seem like she is hoping to eventually do a lot more than just yoga with this Hannah person. Drawn to stories as I am, I’m dying to know more, but maybe it’s too soon.

  “Let me show you to your room. Do you need help with your bags?” she asks, giving me reason to doubt her sanity. Who is this nice?

  Maybe she won’t
be this nice when she finds out the truth.

  Might as well get it over with.

  “Wait, Brit. Before you do that, I have to tell you something.”

  She stops and looks at me expectantly.

  I take a deep breath.

  “I just found out the job I’m supposed to have doesn’t exist anymore. I . . . basically don’t have any job or income or money right now. I don’t think I can be your roommate. I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t have come all the way here only to tell you all this, but . . .”

  Spilling my troubles to Brit brings on another wave of exhaustion that makes me want to cry again. I’ve never been so emotional in my life. I don’t want to cry in front of her, so I look down at my suitcases.

  Suddenly, I feel arms wrap around me and I realize Brit is hugging me. Or she’s preparing to push me out the door. I hope it’s the former.

  “Hey, that’s okay. Don’t be upset. This town can suck like that,” she says while rubbing soothing circles on my back. Seeing as I just met her five minutes ago, this should feel weird. But it just feels nice. Comforting. Maybe it’s the radish smoothie curdling in my stomach, but I feel myself returning her hug gratefully.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sure something else will pop up.” She looks at me with her giant eyes. “You know, don’t worry about it. My last roommate left her security deposit. We can handle it until you find a job.”

  I stare at her. Is this girl for real? Anyone else would have thrown me out on my ass, and she’s not only hugging me, but she’s offering me a chance to live with her rent free?

  “Seriously? I mean, don’t worry. I’ll get a new job right away. I’ll figure it out and pay you back and . . .”

  “Dani,” she says, putting her hands on my shoulders. “I felt a great energy emanating from you the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Um. Thank you?”

  “I can tell that you’ve got a good heart and a kind spirit. Plus your eyes are blue like the ocean, and I can see the waves of possibility crashing in them. Beautiful, serene, but still fierce and fiery. Your eyes are the window to your soul! And your soul is true and proud. That’s more important to me than you having a job.”

  Despite the intense closeness and eye contact, I’m touched. No one has ever said anything like that to me before. Even if I’m not exactly sure what she just said.

  “Plus,” Brit adds, letting her smile light up her face, “you don’t seem like the kind of girl who will just lie around doing nothing. You look like a worker.”

  “Yes, yes!” I’m eager to latch on to a compliment I understand. “That’s exactly who I am. I won’t stop until I find a job. And I will find a way to pay you back the rent I owe you. I promise,” I gush, still not believing that I’m finally catching a break. “In fact, I’ll start looking for jobs right now.” I pull out my laptop.

  “Great! Let me show you to your room first and then you can get settled. Come on!” Brit trills while throwing an arm around my shoulder and guiding me to a small hallway by her couch. I lean into her, thankful for both the support of her arms and her generosity. Thankful for pretty much everything about her other than the radish smoothie.

  *

  An hour later, I’m settled in my new room. It’s small, but big enough for a full-sized bed against the back wall, a nightstand, and a small dresser on the opposite wall with a tiny TV/DVD perched on top. As I put my empty suitcases on the top shelves in the closet, I notice a small box is already up there.

  I reach for the box, which rattles as I pull it down. It’s full of DVDs. But not just any DVDs.

  Golden Girls: The Complete First Season. Golden Girls: The Complete Second Season. Golden Girls. More Golden Girls.

  “Ah, you found Sarina’s old Golden Girls collection,” Brit says from the doorway. “Sarina watched them obsessively—especially when she was going through a hard time. I didn’t have the heart to throw them away.”

  I shrug. “Something tells me I’m going to have a hard couple of weeks. Besides, I left my movie and TV collection back in Chicago so . . . this is all I’ve got for now.”

  Brit excuses herself to work on recipes and I boot up my old Mac. I submit my resume to every single studio for every single position, from personal assistant to custodial. I am willing to do anything as long as it’s in the business. But even the “entry-level” positions require at least two years’ experience, and film school doesn’t seem to count.

  I take a deep breath when I realize that there is only one tactic I haven’t tried yet, but I don’t have a choice, and I’m willing to swallow my anxiety if it means stumbling on a lead.

  I start cold calling.

  The four different people I talk to (all receptionists who seem very upset that they are still answering phones at 6:00 p.m.), tell me the same thing: There are no positions available at this time. When I ask about internships, each one tells me that the deadline for accepting resumes for internships was a month ago, but I can try again in the spring.

  “But you can’t apply unless you have a referral,” one exceptionally rude man tells me when I say I’ll try again in April.

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means we won’t consider you unless someone from the company submits your resume on your behalf.”

  “Okay, but how do I get to know someone from your company?”

  “Usually people get their start here with internships.”

  “So, I can’t get an internship unless I know someone from your company, but I can’t get to know anyone from your company unless I have an internship?”

  “Basically. You should know by now that this business is all about who you know,” he tells me in a no-nonsense tone.

  “But I don’t know anyone,” I say pitifully.

  “Sorry. You should try bartending for a few years.”

  He hangs up on me. I curse at the phone until my anger subsides and then collapse back on my pillows, defeated.

  Dead ends. Each of them. How do people survive this place?

  I pop in a Golden Girls DVD to see if it will cheer me up. It does a little bit, but echoes of the dead-end conversations are bouncing around my head. Shockingly, Betty White is just not doing the trick.

  But I know what will.

  I switch off Golden Girls and walk out to the kitchen to ask Brit if there’s an ice cream place within walking distance. I’m not sure if even a root beer float would be worth another bus adventure.

  “No, but I could make you a cucumber and chia seed float with vegan, dairy-free ice cream,” she offers helpfully. I bite back a shudder at the sound of it and politely decline. Brit smiles. “I figured. It’s not my best seller. Why don’t you take my truck and drive to Floyd’s in Venice? It’s not that far and I hear they make amazing floats.”

  Who is this girl?

  “Really? I can borrow your food truck?”

  “Sure. You’ve had a terrible first day, and if this will make you feel better . . . how could I not let you borrow it?” She tosses me the keys, which are covered in a layer of vegetable slime.

  I want to throw my arms around Brit, who I’ve decided is my guardian angel and not just my roommate, but I try to concentrate on the directions before running out the door.

  Brit’s food truck is a big green monster, with the words “Vegan Art” scrawled all over it in bright yellow lettering. It’s funky, unique, and original—just like Brit.

  I follow her directions on how to start it (“pump the brakes and give the gearshift some love”), and eventually, the truck fires up noisily. Twenty minutes later, I park near Venice Beach and walk quickly along the sand, following the little dot on Google Maps that’s supposed to be taking me to the correct address. If I were in a different mood, I’d be exploring every nook and cranny, armed with my trusty purple notebook, finding stories in interesting places.

  But right now, I just want ice cream. Take me to ice cream, little Google Maps dot!

  Floyd’s i
s a small, brightly lit corner shop that’s next to some store that has a green cross out front. I get in line behind a frantically gesticulating blonde girl and try to suppress the memory of Starbucks Blonde from earlier in the day. The sweet smell of sugar and salted caramel that hits me when I walk through the door is just as comforting as Brit’s incense.

  My eyes settle on a couple sharing a big bowl of ice cream in the corner. I start forming their story in my head, making up their backgrounds and creating a scene for them.

  The woman just bought a big bowl of ice cream because her fiancé lost his job. He was laid off because of cutbacks at the magazine. He’s utterly heartbroken, but his soon-to-be-wife thinks they’ll be just fine, even if they have to stretch her meager teacher’s salary. This is one reason he is marrying her . . . she is always willing to look on the bright side.

  I’m just getting to the part when they exchange vows at their beach wedding when I realize that the blonde girl in front of me has been ordering for a good two minutes. How hard is it to say “give me ice cream?” “With hot fudge?” “And maybe some caramel and marshmallow?” “And possibly some cookie crumbles?”

  Okay, maybe a two minute order isn’t so weird. I tune back to the girl in front of me because her voice has gone up an octave.

  “I don’t want plain vanilla. I need French vanilla at the bottom of the glass. Do you have that?” the girl asks. I stare up at the ceiling. Is she serious?

  “And I need two scoops of ice cream instead of one. And can I please get a shot of chocolate syrup on top of the ice cream before you put in the root beer? And whipped cream on top with a blueberry, not a cherry.”

  Wait. I know that order. Two scoops of French vanilla, a shot of chocolate syrup, and a blueberry on top. I’ve heard that order a hundred times before, all between the ages of nine and sixteen. But there’s no way.