“Actually not too bad.”
“Any numbness or tingling?”
“Nope.”
I popped the small disposable ice pack and placed it over his ankle.”This will take down the swelling and help reduce the pain.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“How did it happen?”
“I was setting up for the Brianna Travers’ music video and tripped over a power line.” He checked his watch. “Ten minutes ago.”
Something brushed the back of my head, but I was halfway through re-securing the cold pack on Terri’s ankle and couldn’t turn around.
“He wants to say hello.” Terri peered over my shoulder.
“I’ll be right there,” I called out to the person insistently tapping the back of my head.
“He wants a snack.” Terri raised an eyebrow.
“The craft services table will have lots of snacks,” I said to the person still nudging my head. Whoever it was lacked any awareness of personal boundaries.
The tapping was now a thump.
I turned awkwardly to face them. “What the--”
A towering African elephant loomed over me. The kind you usually see on the other side of an enclosure. I tipped backwards and landed hard on my butt, blinking up at the enormous animal.
“He’s very friendly,” Terri said. “I’m his handler. He’s checking on me.”
“He’s a…”
“Hey Rumi,” Terri called to him. “This is Piper. She’s making my ankle all better. She’s our friend.” Terri sat up straight and stroked Rumi’s trunk. “Rumi’s going to be in Brianna’s music video.”
Rumi raised his trunk as though understanding what Terri was saying.
My life was beginning to feel like a nature reality show. Last night I was almost savaged by a coyote and today I’d come face to face with an elephant who seemed as fascinated with me as I was with him.
I’d once read somewhere that such coincidences were a sign that the universe was trying to tell you something. All I had to do was decode the message.
Hhmmm...
Maybe a road trip out of the city to be closer to nature? Or perhaps I was being told something about my animal instincts. I really was beginning to sound like Ellie, with her new age beliefs.
There had been that time at the park a week ago when I’d been reading a book by Deepak Chopra, a doctor of alternative medicine and real life guru. Chopra encouraged practicing silence as a way of getting closer to one’s true self and better blend into nature’s consciousness.
A few pages in and I’d looked down to see several squirrels at my feet, all of them on their hind legs, staring up at me. Taken by the magical connection with them, I’d flipped to the author’s photo, admiring Chopra’s demeanor and realizing I’d risen to his level of understanding upon this sacred journey of enlightenment--
Only to hear an old lady say, “Hello dear. They think you’re the nut lady.” She was holding a big bag of almonds. The squirrels had apparently confused me for her, the woman who fed them daily.
Still, Rumi’s intelligent eyes were taking everything in and he really did seem to connect with me; his trunk tapping my arm playfully.
“Rumi likes you,” Terri said. “Elephants have good instincts.”
“He’s beautiful.” I reached inside my kit for an elastic bandage. Gently, I removed the ice pack from Terri’s ankle and replaced it with the bandage, wrapping it firmly for support. “I know you’re working, but if you can keep your leg elevated whenever you can it’ll help reduce the swelling.” I closed my medical kit and eased off my gloves.
Whatever I’d expected from today wasn’t anything like this; a fricken elephant, for goodness sake.
I ran my hand along Rumi’s trunk, feeling the warmth of his skin, his small hairs prickling my palm. “Where does his name come from?”
“A 13th century poet and prophet.” Terri raised his chin. “Why should I seek? I am the same as He. His essence speaks through me. I have been looking for myself!” He nodded knowingly. “That’s Rumi.”
“That’s quite...profound,” I patted Rumi’s side now, my confidence growing.
“He’ll remember you, Piper,” Terri said. “And he’ll remember you were kind to me. To both of us.”
My gazed turned back to Rumi. “You made my day.”
“Well,” Terri said. “Your magic touch seems to have done its job on my ankle. It feels better already.”
“Terri, do visit us in the medical department if it doesn’t improve,” I said. “Rumi, you’re welcome too, but I doubt you’d fit.” I waved goodbye, my grin staying with me.
Once outside, I saw a young woman was sitting in the front seat of my golf cart. She was puffing away on a cigarette. Her tight leather pants, sequined halter-neck top, and heavily made up face looked out of place for this time of day.
Then I recognized her as twenty-something, pop singer Brianna Travers. She was waiting to film her music video.
“Someone got hurt?” she asked, exhaling a wisp of smoke.
“Everyone’s fine.” I drew my gaze away.
A few days ago, Adam had held up a copy of Cosmo with this pop icon’s photo splashed on the center page. The photo was of her climbing out of a limo caught in a compromising shot. The headline suggesting she was out of control. Again.
Up close Brianna certainly appeared worn out and lost even, her foundation barely covering the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Cute elephant, huh?” she said.
“He so is.” I swung the kit into the back of the golf cart. “Now I know what I want for my birthday.” I threw her a smile.
Brianna stepped out of the cart. “Around here you never know who’s real.”
I took a moment to consider her words and then realized what she was getting at. “The uniform. Yes, I’m a real nurse.”
“You have an interesting job, helping people and stuff,” she said. “I wanted to be a nurse when I was little.”
“Your life’s pretty amazing now by the look of things.” I used my chin to point toward the stage.
“Grass is always greener, right?”
I was amazed that someone who made millions would suggest such a thing. My life was living pay check to pay check and hers oozed glamour. There was something in Brianna’s demeanor, the way she took in the deepest sigh, the way she studied the stage door, that hinted at sadness.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Everyone assumes because I’m famous my life’s easy.”
I sat in the cart and turned to her. “Yes, you’re right, I do.”
The way her face changed made me wonder how often she’d heard the truth. I felt self-conscious, quickly adding, “No one really knows what another person’s going through. Everyone can covet another’s life. Everyone has problems.”
She raised her eyebrows, seemingly surprised someone was speaking so frankly to her.
“I can’t think of anything more terrifying than being chased by the paparazzi,” I said.
“What they don’t show on TV,” Brianna came closer, “are the threats the photographers shout to get my attention so they get their money shot.” She stared off past me. “I get criticized if I put on five pounds or even if I don’t. If one of my song’s bombs. If I date the wrong guy. Or the right one.”
I realized the motive for any man wanting to date Brianna Travers was very likely biased, and wondered how she’d ever be sure if he was merely enamored with her celebrity.
This uniform had an interesting way of making people open up. It truly was a privileged position.
“Piper, pretty name.” Brianna pointed to my ID. “I’m Brianna.” She burst into laughter. “You probably already know that.”
A well-dressed, middle-aged man appeared at the stage door, and said, “Brianna, they’re ready for you.”
“I’m good to go,” she told him and turned back to me. “It was nice to meet you.”
I was about to invite her over for coffee in
the medical department and then realized it probably wasn’t appropriate.
Brianna hesitated as though about to say more, but then hung her head and followed the man inside.
Steering the golf cart along Chicago Street, heading back, I couldn’t wait to tell Natalie about meeting Rumi. I hoped to find another excuse to visit the set and see him again.
I considered my surreal encounter with Brianna, whose songs I’d listened to for years and quite a few I’d sung in the shower. Her life had once appeared so full of glamour, though now after meeting her it seemed deeply tragic. I felt the true value of anonymity.
When I reached New York Street, I slowed right down, carefully steering around the camera equipment and film crew. I drove cautiously behind the crowd of onlookers standing at the base of a fake brownstone townhouse. All of them gazed up, their attention focused on--
George Clooney, who was standing halfway up the few short steps, lingering before a fake doorway with a makeup artist in front of him, dapping his face with a powder puff.
My airway tightened as though grabbed in a vice-like grip and I sucked in breath, trying to focus.
I remembered reading Resident Hero’s call sheet this morning, warning they’d be filming on New York Street. Forgetting this pertinent detail, I’d unwittingly driven right into the center of their location.
Set decorators were still putting the finishing touches on the street scene and luckily they weren’t filming yet, so the chance of me being caught on film wasn’t the problem.
My real concern was that George Clooney’s gaze would find me, like it had now, fixing onto me with an intense focus.
I squeezed the accelerator and the cart took off, quickly picking up speed, zooming along toward Chicago Street. I turned the wheel, aiming for the gap between two stages.
The golf cart’s front left wheel bumped over a fissure and the cart tipped, its left wheels raising off the ground and its right two careening off.
With my heart wedged firmly in my throat, I struggled to get control, performing what must have looked like an Evel Knievel stunt, artfully steering the cart away from the crowd. The wheels touched down again and I sucked in my breath, full of relief. Only to realize I was headed straight for a life size cardboard standee of George Clooney, his image smiling right at me... as I ran over it. The crowd, now silent, watched.
I shoved the cart into reverse and backed up, actually driving over George’s standee again. Offering a calm wave of my hand, as though this was business as usual, I turned my cart and headed off down Chicago Street, away from the scene of the crime.
There came three beeps on my radio.
“This is Blue One,” I answered.
A crackle came through. “Yes, Blue One, this is Security Base Station.” There was laughter in the background.
My little escapade had been watched by everyone in the communication center on the security cameras covering the lot.
“Checking our nurse is still in one piece.” The security guard chuckled.
“10-4,” I replied breathlessly, my cheeks burning. “Returning to the medical department.”
I hoped I’d been far enough away from Le George that he’d not recognized me. As the embarrassing moments replaying caused me to cringe, I became aware of a distracting scraping noise coming from the back of the cart. I slowed to better listen, trying to determine what was causing it.
I parked in front of the medical department and jumped out, nearing the back of the vehicle to explore the strange sound. I let out a long moan. The cardboard cutout of George Clooney was smiling at me, its lower edge having caught on the tailgate. Hands shaking, I eased out the end of the cardboard and hoisted the medical kit onto my right shoulder, bolting toward the front door of the department with George’s likeness and praying no one had caught my eccentric escapade.
Inside the doorway I tripped on the welcome rug and landed on top of the cardboard cutout.
“Are you all right?” Adam said, coming to my rescue and helping me up. He eased the kit off my shoulder and placed it in the corner. His gaze fell on cardboard George.
“Adam,” I said breathlessly, “you have to help me.”
He raised a hand. “Professional help comes to mind.”
“No,” I said, waving off his humor. “I need you to take this back to New York.”
“No wonder you were so long.”
“New York Street,” I said. “I was out on a call to Stage 9, which was really for Stage 10. There was an elephant...”
“May I suggest decaf?” Adam’s gaze roamed the life-size image. “Can’t we keep him?” He took the cutout from me and held it at arm’s length. “It’ll go great in our coffee room.”
“No,” I insisted. “It got caught on the end of my cart when I drove over it.”
Adam knitted his eyebrows together in a frown.
“It was an accident,” I said, my panic rising at what kind of trouble I was in.
The doorbell signaled someone was entering right behind me.
Appearing in the doorway was Sarah Thompson, the young actress that Arthur had warned me about.
Slowly, I turned to look back at Adam, surprised to see his hands empty and no sign of the cutout.
Adam ignored me and greeted Sarah. “Hello there.”
“I have a headache,” Sarah said, her gaze roaming the office as though looking for something.
“Go right through that door.” Adam gestured to the one behind him. “First treatment room on the left. A nurse will be right with you.”
Sarah headed in that direction.
I wondered why she’d not mentioned the cutout, and waited until she was out of sight before turning back to look at Adam.
Adam winked my way, revealing he’d thrown the standee into the main office and out of Sarah’s view.
“Thank you,” I mouthed.
“No problem,” he whispered with a crooked smile, which quickly faded as his stare slid back to where Sarah had been standing. “She’s dating the head of the studio.” He pressed his fingertip to his lips.
I was stunned to hear that, and doubted Arthur knew this. After all, he’d boldly challenged her that first day we’d met, seemingly unaware of her grand connection.
Adam strolled into the front office and picked up George’s standee and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take him out into the desert tonight and bury him.” He tightened the collar of his orange plaid shirt and whistled the theme to The Godfather as he strolled off with him, preparing to hide all evidence of my second embarrassing Clooney encounter, and easily the most painful.
CHAPTER 6
Someone was knocking on my front door.
Teddy was barking.
I’d fallen asleep on my couch, only to awaken to a Tupperware advert. Sneaky way to get into my subconscious, I thought, wondering what other ways I’d been subliminally brainwashed into buying something I didn’t need. My gaze rested on exhibit A, the neglected juicer resting on my kitchen counter.
There came another knock.
With a quick glance at my watch, I was reassured I’d not slept away my entire day off.
Peering through the small glass hole in my front door, I was surprised to see the warped image of Dave Remington, my new, hot neighbor. A jolt of excitement ran up my spine.
“Just a minute,” I called out as I unhooked the chain.
Opening the door, I was careful not to let Teddy out.
Dave smiled in a member-of-a-boy-band kind of way, his pale blue jeans hanging low and his black locks spiked with gel.
“Hey there.” He arched an eyebrow. “I’m Dave, your new neighbor.”
I already knew his name after reading it on his mailbox, though I wasn’t going to share that with him.
“Piper. Welcome to Grove Apartments.”
“Met my other neighbor,” he said, masterfully covering up for my awkwardness. “Mrs. Taylor, our landlady. Seems nice.”
“She’s wonderful,” I said, “She watches Teddy wh
en I’m at work. She has a Jack Russell and they love to play together.”
My phone rang and I cursed the person trying to disrupt this moment that I would obviously remember forever.
“Do you need to get that?” he asked, showing off his dimples. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You’re not.”
He gave an amused look. “You have children?” He gestured into the living room.
I turned to see Sesame Street playing on the TV.
Teddy was balancing precariously on the back of the sofa with the remote control between his teeth. He’d unwittingly changed the channel.
“No children,” I said. “Just Teddy. Who’s like a child to be honest.”
The phone rang again.
“Probably not important,” I said, though realizing how it sounded I quickly added, “Though it could be. I have a full social life and so many friends that are constantly begging me to go out. I mean not boyfriends. I’m currently single.” My inside voice, that had started off as a whisper telling me to stop waffling, had now risen to a high-pitched scream telling me to shut up.
Loud quacking came from my iPhone, its ringtone clashing with Elmo’s high-pitched singing on the TV and competing with Teddy’s barking.
“Cute dog,” Dave said, blinking away the painful noise.
“Not much of a guard dog, I’m afraid,” I said, raising my voice over the din. “Though it’s a safe neighborhood.”
Oh God, now I sound like my mother.
He stepped back. “It’s been a pleasure, Piper.”
“It was nice meeting you,” I regretted the lackluster in my tone as I shut the door.
With the television silenced and the phones now quiet, I slumped onto the sofa, my mind drifting to what could have been a cooler way to end our first meeting, like, “The Getty’s only fifteen minutes away. They have a marvelous collection of Rembrandts. If you ever want to check it out, let me know.” But I hadn’t said those words. Instead I’d slipped back into a high school shyness that made me seem aloof.
I peered down at Teddy. “I thought you were my wing dog?”
His gaze fixed on me in a peculiar way.
“Oh no!” I ran into the bathroom.
Piper Day's Ultimate Guide To Avoiding George Clooney Page 5